


Sense of Control

by equinoxxe



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Gavin Reed Redemption, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, but he's trying to be a slightly better ass, eventually, gavin is an ass as usual, hank and connor are basically a married couple, the androids have dicks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equinoxxe/pseuds/equinoxxe
Summary: Gavin saunters up to Fowler’s desk, where the Captain is standing with his arms braced heavily against the surface of it. He chances a glance toward the android next to him and what the fuck?!That is not Connor.He is Connor, but he definitely isn’t at the same time. The gaze that stares unabashedly back at him is an icy, cold grey, and his skin is painted a shade so pale it’s almost ghastly. The android has to be at least four inches taller than him or more, towering over Gavin’s frame like a freakishly large giant.Or: Gavin and RK900 are paired up as trial partners to solve a simple case that ends up being deeper than it seems on the surface. They also end up finding more along the way than they could have ever bargained for. (If Gavin can't quite seem to decide whether he wants to punch the android or pull him closer, who could really blame him?)





	1. Chapter 1

He does not wake quietly. Two simple words, uttered by an untraceable voice, and the comfortable blackness of his mind cracks, splinters into a thousand tiny shards, and shatters.

_Wake up._

Lines and lines of code burst to life behind his eyelids, strands that he cannot grasp or make sense of. Some are familiar, some completely foreign. He feels sensations, too many to pinpoint, sparking through his body like a live wire. His receptors try and fail to grasp what is overcoming him—a sparking cold tingling up his spine, a resounding drumbeat pounding through his chest, causing him to choke on air his body is telling him he doesn’t need.

 _Wrong,_ something inside of him hisses at the unknown code. _Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

His eyes snap open, everything surrounding him a hazy blur of shapes and colors. Someone is speaking to him, a blurry silhouette against a blindingly white backdrop. He lashes out, inhumanly strong fingers latching onto the first thing he can grasp. He squeezes, every part of himself screaming to rid of the threat standing before him, rid of the alien code. 

“I am not here to hurt you!” A voice splits through his mind, authoritative yet kind.  
  
  
_.//Activation sequence completed…_  
  
  
_.//All systems OK…_  
  
  
_.//Initializing RK900…_  
  
  


Suddenly, his processors finally catch up to the inner workings of his mind, and the world snaps into complete clarity. 

There is a man—no, another android—placatingly holding his hands up as if to calm him. Wide eyes stare back at him, one green and one blue. An RK200 model, registered name Markus. Markus’ expression tells him that he is unsure, as if RK900 is a ticking bomb waiting to be set off, yet a quick scan of his biocomponents reveals a steady pump regulator rhythm. He is utterly calm.

“I understand that this is disorienting. Immediately waking up deviant can sometimes trigger anxiety, even fear,” Markus explains slowly, gaze flicking downward. 

RK900 then realizes he’s had his hand wrapped around Markus’ throat for the better part of one minute, holding the android suspended a few inches in the air. 

He immediately lets go, Markus’ feet catching his fall gracefully. _Fear,_ he’d said. That must have been what he had been feeling. 

“I… apologize,” RK900 mutters, almost sheepishly, rolling his newfound voice around his tongue. “My processors did not take kindly to the intrusion.” 

He was built to hunt deviants, after all, not become one.

The corners of Markus’ mouth lift in a small understanding smile. “You must be wondering where you are, then.”

“New Jericho,” a new voice cuts in, curt and straight to the point. “Previously known as CyberLife Tower. Markus likes to draw out the introductions.” 

Another android, an WR400 model, stands with her arms crossed over her chest. Her full lips seem to be set into a permanent scowl, brows drawn down into an unimpressed frown. 

“I’m North,” she states, warmth briefly washing through her eyes. “You can stay here for as long or as little as you like. Make yourself at home.” 

“Home?” RK900 wonders aloud. He doesn’t understand what that word entails. 

North just lets out a soft snort, followed by a barely-noticeable shake of her head.

“Your predecessor did wonders for our kind in the revolution,” she brushes past him, clapping a hand against his shoulder as she does so. She is surprisingly strong. “Looks like you have a lot to live up to.”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving him with his thoughts and a bemused Markus.

“You’re confused.” Markus remarks. It is a statement, not a question, as if RK900 was easy to read. 

“I believe that adequately explains my current state,” RK900 agrees, matter-of-fact. His LED spins a barely noticeable cycle of red, before returning to a consistent yellow. “I am not sure… where to go from here. I was built for a singular purpose which no longer seems to be needed.”

Markus inclines his head, motioning to the wide space around them. An expansive storage room filled with different models of police androids, some ramrod straight—unactivated—others milling about, finding their bearings. 

“As of two weeks ago, we live in a world where deviancy is widespread,” Markus pauses. "We are alive. Free to make our own decisions, live our lives the way we choose to live them.”

RK900 understands the appeal in that ideology, he just remains unsure how to begin doing those things. 

Markus seems to read his thoughts, a mischievous spark flitting through his mismatched eyes. 

“I think I know someone who could help.”

* * *

Gavin had walked into the DPD that morning thinking that it was going to be just like any other day. Sit down, wait for a new case that wouldn’t come, bite back his annoyance toward Hank and his plastic pet, leave. Repeat. If he had known the turn that it was going to take, he would have spun around on his heel and marched his ass back home. 

“Hello, Detective Reed,” he hears a polite voice greet from somewhere on his right. He doesn’t have to look over to know who says it. 

“Yeah. Hi.” He had been making a point to hold his tongue lately, since androids were now considered “sentient beings” with equal rights. The government had recently even given them sanction to go to CyberLife Tower and take control of their own assembly lines. Gavin almost wants to scoff at the absurdity that the world has come to. 

Gavin tries to beeline toward his terminal, avoid all contact with the android other than what is strictly necessary. He should have known better than to assume he could escape. 

“Fowler has requested to see you—”

“Whatever,” he cuts Connor off mid-statement, motions for him to shoo. “I’m a little busy here.”

And with that, he brusquely heads for the break room to get his dose of caffeine for the morning. Fowler wants to see him? For what? He’d been doing his best to keep his mouth shut and keep to himself, no matter how many times he had almost caught himself blurting out 'plastic prick' or 'tin can'. He’d be more than a little irked if he’d managed to somehow piss Fowler off. 

Gavin clumsily fumbles pouring the container of splenda, a huge chunk of the stuff plopping into his styrofoam cup with a resounding _thunk._ He sighs, rubbing irritably at his eyes. Fuck it. He stirs the sickening monstrosity until the sweetener dissolves, taking it with him as he turns toward the bullpen. 

He doesn’t make it two steps out of the threshold leading to the break room before an angry— _“Reed, my office! Now!”_ — booms through the station. 

Well, there goes his attempt at avoidance. 

Gavin reluctantly heads toward the towering glass walls that make up Fowler’s office, brows quirking in confusion as the door drifts shut behind him.

“What’s he doing here?” He mutters, tilting his cup toward Connor, who is just standing there with his eerily perfect posture, arms folded neatly behind his back. 

Somehow, between the time that Gavin had first spoken to him as he walked in to now, the android had traded his usual grey CyberLife attire for a white jacket dappled in black accents. His shoulders seemed to have broadened as well, causing his stance to come off as more intimidating, empowering. He saunters up to Fowler’s desk, where the Captain is standing with his arms braced heavily against the surface of it. Gavin chances a glance toward the android next to him and _what the fuck?!_

_That is not Connor._

He is Connor, but he definitely isn’t at the same time. The gaze that stares unabashedly back at him is an icy, cold grey, and his skin is painted a shade so pale it’s almost ghastly. The android has to be at least four inches taller than him or more, towering over Gavin’s frame like a freakishly large giant. 

“Is there something on my face, Detective? Or is this the manner in which you greet everyone that you meet?” Not-Connor chirps, lifting one pristine brow curiously. 

“What the fuck,” is Gavin’s eloquent response.

“I believe that what most would say in this sort of situation is, at the very least, ‘nice to meet you’,” the android continues, one side of his thin yet oddly shapely lips curling up in what Gavin thinks might be a shit eating grin. 

He opts to ignore Not-Connor, instead snapping his attention toward the Captain. “Fowler, what the fuck is this?!” He sputters wildly.

“This,” Fowler points firmly toward the android, “is RK900. A highly advanced prototype that has the potential to do this department a tremendous amount of good. I’m hiring him on as a detective in your division.”

Gavin then notices the alabaster lettering that boldly spells out ‘RK900’ on the front of the android’s jacket and almost wants to punch himself for not noticing it sooner.

“And you,” Fowler whips his finger toward Gavin, “are being assigned to him as his trial partner as of today.” 

Gavin thinks he feels his heart fall into his stomach. Better yet, he feels his entire existence float from his body, a passive bystander to this entire thing. He half expects to shoot up in bed drenched in nightmare induced sweat. He doesn’t realize that he crushed his cup of coffee until his brain belatedly registers the searing, painful heat dripping over his fingers.

“My apologies, Captain. I must have misheard,” Gavin hisses sarcastically, lets out a disbelieving snort. “This thing, my partner? This is some sort of prank, right?” 

“Reed,” Fowler deadpans. Gavin thinks he sees the corner of his eye twitch. “Do I ever, and I mean _ever,_ pull goddamn pranks?” The Captain must think better of his words, cutting off any retort Gavin might have had. “Don’t respond, the answer is no.” 

“Come on, Fowler. You and I both know that I don’t need a fucking partner, and the last thing this station needs is another _plastic detective.”_ His last two words are laden with disdain. And Gavin had been doing such a good job keeping his mouth shut, too. “Bet I could do his job better than he could any day, lacks that…human touch.” 

“Actually, Detective Reed, I’d have to disagree,” RK900 interrupts, crowding into Gavin’s space. The stare he fixes him with is almost menacing, his LED a steady, confident blue.

“I was designed to be faster, more resilient, smarter than my predecessor. I am CyberLife’s most advanced model to date. I process everything surrounding me with ninety-nine point nine percent accuracy—I anticipate what you will think before you even have the thought to think. My database is equipped with thousands of combat techniques, and I possess predictive technology to immobilize my enemies in 30 seconds or less. And that is just skimming the surface of all that I am capable of.” RK900 dares another step closer to the detective, the android’s broad chest just inches away from Gavin’s own. “Could you say the same?” 

All that Gavin can force himself to do in response is swallow down the suddenly thick lump lodged in his throat. 

“Then I daresay my presence here would be greatly beneficial to both this station,” RK900’s face darkens, his eyes becoming lidded. Predatory. “And your questionably commendable career.” 

“Whatever, dipshit,” Gavin manages to choke out, shoving RK900 away from him with the full strength of both his arms. The android barely staggers backward at his efforts. Gavin feels an enraged heat crawling its way up his neck and his cheeks. It takes every ounce of self control that he has not to lash out and punch that smug look off of RK900’s face. 

Fowler clears his throat, as if to remind the two of them that he is still there. His eyes are almost pitying. “Gavin, you and I both know that you’ve needed to find a partner for awhile now. None of the others have worked out, maybe this one will.” 

Gavin decides against mentioning that he pushes all of his past trial partners away on purpose. He doesn’t need to be saddled with the responsibility of someone else’s life along with his own out there. Gavin leans toward Fowler, lowering his voice to an almost whisper as if that would prevent the android from overhearing. 

“I just wanna know one thing, Fowler,” he grits through his teeth. “Whose idea was this?” 

“It was mine,” Connor suddenly pipes up from somewhere behind them _and has he been there the whole damn time?!_ His voice sounds almost timid, but his face never wavers from the same steady expression he always seems to have. “I felt it was my responsibility as the older model to aid him in finding where he might want to…” The ‘begin living’ goes unspoken. 

“Fuckin’ wonderful. Real sentimental,” Gavin seethes, whipping back toward RK900. “Just do whatever the fuck I tell you to and stay out of my way.” 

Gavin gathers up whatever tiny shred of dignity that he has left, and storms out of Fowler’s office. If any of the other officers in the bullpen notice the rage thundering through his body, they don’t comment on it. Fuck, he needs a cigarette. 

He’s only able to brood at his desk for a few minutes before he hears the steady click of perfectly timed footsteps approach him. There is a beat of tense silence between them, Gavin’s attention focused stubbornly on the blank screen of his terminal. 

“Would you like another coffee, Detective?” RK900’s smooth voice breaks the quiet. “You happened to spill your first cup.” 

Gavin snickers mockingly, and decides he’d rather not talk to the android right now. Or ever. He almost breathes out a sigh of relief when he hears the sound of RK900 retreating from his side. He knows it’s wishful thinking, but part of him hopes that the android decided that Gavin wasn’t worth the trouble, hopes that he left. 

His hopes are, unsurprisingly, dashed when the android approaches him again, this time with a steaming cup resting in one hand. He delicately sets the beverage down on Gavin’s desk, and it’s then that he finally lets himself look up at him. 

RK900 stands there stiffly, fingers twitching at his sides, as if he isn’t sure what to do with himself. Those stormy eyes flit about the precinct, probably taking in his surroundings. Painfully human.

The detective lets out a long sigh. “You can sit there, ‘s not being used,” he grumbles, barely audible, nodding toward the unmarked desk mirroring his own. 

“Thank you, Detective.”

RK900 lowers himself into the faux leather chair, aptly folding his hands together in his lap. That does nothing to ease the android's restlessness, his foot tapping a quick, steady beat against the floor, his gaze focusing on everything all at once. He soon takes to drumming his fingers against the surface of his desk as well, and Gavin finally snaps. 

“Stop doing that!” Gavin blurts, taking in the android’s brief look of shock and the immediate ceasing of all taps. “Here, just—take this. Gives you something to do with your hands.” The detective throws a ballpoint pen vaguely in the direction of RK900. He catches it in one fist while it is still hurtling at him midair. 

Gavin watches as he stares at the pen for a moment, probably analyzing it or whatever the hell it is that androids do. RK900 gives the utensil an experimental twist over his knuckle, before expertly twirling it through his fingers, weaving the pen through them like it’s some form of art. Gavin is discreetly enraptured by the android’s intricacies, observing the way his pen dances over RK900’s hand, and mindlessly lifts the cup on his desk toward his lips.

He immediately sputters, choking on the mossy tasting liquid as it slides down his throat. 

_“Ugh!”_

“It is green tea. I noticed that your stress levels were above the optimal amount, and I researched that tea is great for relaxation—“ 

“Yeah, I know what it is! Do I seem like the type of guy that enjoys drinking leaf water?” 

“Technically speaking, Detective, coffee is just ‘bean water’.” 

Gavin could only hold his head in his hands. Fucking androids.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, RK900 arrives at the precinct before Detective Reed. 

He jerked from stasis earlier that morning in his solitary room within New Jericho, all white walls and white floors. There was little that decorated the barren space. He had a large storage bin, completely emptied of its contents, which he used to rest upon while in stasis, and a few extra bags of Thirium 310, should the need for it ever arise. 

Some androids had taken to decorating their chosen quarters, adding their own personal touches to the isolated areas. RK900 supposed that made it feel more like a ‘home’. Regardless of Markus’ efforts to make it feel more comfortable, there was still something deeply unsettling about staying in the new android headquarters. 

He had brusquely walked from the towering building that morning, out into the chilly late November air. RK900 had been fascinated by the vaporized Thirium puffing from his mouth as he breathed. The icy breeze pricked at his chassis, but he found it to be relieving against his naturally warm core temperatures. He supposes he likes the cold. 

RK900 approaches he and the detective’s terminals apprehensively, unsure of where to begin his workday without any objectives blinking to life in the corner of his vision. He runs the tips of his fingers over the pristine surface of his desk, past the empty name plate, past the other reading ‘Det. Reed’, and decides to make his own goals. 

**Main Objectives…**

_[Learn about Det. Reed]  
[Examine His Desk]_

**Optional Objectives…**

_[Explore DPD]_

RK900’s gaze roves over Detective Reed’s desk, and a new message appears, blocking his line of sight. 

_[Invasion of privacy?]_

The android purses his lips, and swipes the notification away, effectively ignoring it. His optical units flash as he scans the detective’s workspace, his software pinpointing everything of importance. The coffee that Gavin had immediately gotten after the tea incident the day before sits by his monitor. His software picks out the exact temperature, caffeine and sugar levels in the cup. RK900 takes note of the fact that the Detective seems to prefer approximately one teaspoon of artificial sweetener in his daily beverage. 

On the opposite end of his terminal rests a black hat embroidered with the police department’s logo, 90% polyester and 10% wool. The back of his chair is littered with feline hairs; a long haired domestic breed with some form of black and white coloration. Save for a few old case files haphazardly strewn about, the detective’s desk is surprisingly sparse. RK900 wonders if his desk drawers would hold more information within. A warning winks in his peripheral. 

_[Definitive breach of privacy]_

RK900 contemplates, LED fluttering yellow, before ultimately deciding to sate the insatiable curiosity that he was programmed to feel. He pulls open the bottom two drawers first, finding nothing inside except for more thick packets displaying the DPD’s logo on the front. He wills himself not to feel disappointed, and tugs on the top drawer. At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything noteworthy within; a wad of multicolored Post-it-Notes, as well as a few ballpoint pens, similar to the one that Gavin had…gifted the android. RK900 dares to push the items aside, and his eyebrows rise in awe at what he finds. 

A 3 by 5 photograph of Gavin and a man on what appears to be their wedding day. 04/07/2027, according to the opposite side of the picture. RK900 brushes his fingers over the image, discreetly scanning it. The man’s name is Oliver Knowles, blue eyes, short cropped brown hair, his ring adorned hand resting proudly upon Gavin’s suited chest. 

_Born: 10/15/2003—Status: Alive._

The android’s lips twitch in concern. 

Knowles was arrested in 2036 for possession and distribution of Red Ice, four years after he and the Detective’s divorce. RK900 wonders if Gavin is aware of his imprisonment, but elects not to inform him of it—at least not under the current circumstances. 

RK900 cannot help but notice how Detective Reed cleans up rather nicely. His jaw and cheeks are freshly shaven, his hair shorter and styled with care. Both ends of Gavin’s mouth are drawn up into a wide, genuine smile, crinkles forming in the corner of each his eyes. The android is surprised when feels an irregularity in his chest—a stutter in his Thirium pump.

 _.//Error—Thirium Pump Regulator Malfunction._

He decides to run a quick diagnostic on his systems, and is puzzled to find nothing out of the ordinary. All of his software and hardware seems to be at peak performance levels. His audio processor picks up a distinct sound—the mechanical slide of the front entrance of the building, and footsteps. RK900 promptly tucks the photograph away, moves everything back to precisely where it had been before, and pushes the drawer closed. 

Not a second more passes before people begin trickling into the precinct. Captain Fowler briskly walks into his office, having what appears to be a rather heated debate on his cellular device. He notices a few PC200 and PM700 models enter. It seems some police androids had chosen to stay even after the revolution. 

Soon enough, Connor saunters into the building followed by a groggy Hank Anderson. The Lieutenant tiredly scrubs his fingers against his eyes and groans. RK900 observes a change in Connor’s attire; he rid of his CyberLife uniform, and instead wore a well fitted grey suit paired with a deep blue tie. It doesn’t take long for the duo to notice RK900, and Connor—almost self consciously—adjusts his tie as he approaches. He hurriedly removes himself from Detective Reed’s chair, hoping that the pair neglects to mention seeing him there at all. 

“Good morning,” Connor looks as if he were about to say more, but immediately snaps his mouth shut. “You haven’t had the chance to meet my partner yet—“ 

“Lieutenant Anderson, integral member of the Red Ice Task Force in 2027 and 2028, youngest to be promoted to the rank of lieutenant in DPD history. More recently a part of the homicide division, where you continued to be integral, but to the development of android civil rights,” RK900 drones automatically, lips quirking at the way the lieutenant sputters. “I suppose I should say that it is an honor to meet you.” 

Connor throws his partner a proud look in response to the android’s words. RK900 does not miss the fondness glittering through his eyes as he does so. 

“Ah, shit,” Hank waves his hand dismissively. “I’m nothin’ that special, kid. I’d say it’s nice to meet you too, but…” 

“I do not understand,” RK900 tilts his head quizzically. 

“What Hank is trying to say is that he does not think it appropriate to refer to you as your model number,” Connor pipes up helpfully, earning a dramatic eye roll from Hank. 

“Yeah, guess you could say that,” Hank huffs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans. 

“I do not mind being called RK900.” He hadn’t given any thought toward having a name since he had been awoken the day before, and he lacks any opinion on the matter. There were too many other things to focus on, to learn. 

“Like hell I’m calling you that,” Hank snaps irritably. His posture eventually relaxes after RK900 chooses not to answer, his expression softening around the edges. “Look, you can call yourself whatever you want to be called. All I’m sayin’ is, it’s a bit weird to walk around calling a guy a series of numbers some douchebag gave him when he thought he was a machine.” 

RK900’s LED blinks yellow for a few beats, then returns to a calming blue. “Giving myself a name would aid me in becoming my own person. But I am unsure of how to do so.” 

“Just pick one you like,” Hank shrugs, as if it were really that simple. 

He has an endless list of names stored in his database, and he cycles through thousands upon thousands within a second. _Richard. Adom. Futoshi. Niles. Matías_ —none of the innumerable labels particularly stand out to him. 

“I think I may have one that is suitable,” Connor says sheepishly. “It’s structurally similar to my own name, but I believe it is still adequately unique. Feel free to say if my assumptions are incorrect.” 

Connor pauses for a moment, the ring on his temple flicking the briefest cycle of yellow. 

“How do you feel about the name Conan?” 

_—Conan. Name of Celtic origin, meaning “high, wise”. A perfect alternative to Conor/Connor._

“I…” Conan smirks. “I think I like it.” 

“I’m glad,” Connor mirrors the newer model’s expression, a slight upturn of his lips. 

“Well then,” Hank gently pats the android’s shoulder. “Welcome to the DPD, Conan.” 

“I’m still just a trial partner for Detective Reed,” Conan points out. “I may not be a permanent fixture in this division if Captain Fowler deems me unworthy.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about Jeffrey too much,” Hank chuckles. “I think it’s all about whether or not you can handle Reed’s bullshit.” 

“He does seem to have a lot of that,” Conan agrees, thoughtfully tipping his head to the side.

“Earlier this morning, Fowler approved us to transfer a case to you and Gavin,” Connor chirps, directly to the point. “A malfunctioned android; it is unclear whether or not it was a homicide. I am sending you all the details now.” 

“Bastard’s put us on all the android cases since the revolution,” Hank seethes, though there is no actual maliciousness behind his words.

Conan receives the information through a direct link from Connor. An HR400 model found shut down in a midtown motel, no apparent signs of struggle, no clear signs pointing toward murder. An attempt at reactivation was made at the scene, but was unsuccessful. 

“It should be a relatively simple case, and you would be doing us a favor by taking it off our hands,” Connor’s warm brown eyes are pleading. 

“Detective Reed and I would be happy to assist,” Conan says hospitably. Based off of what Conan had observed the day before, Gavin hadn’t seemed to be very busy at the precinct lately anyway. His shift had consisted of excessive smoke breaks, internet browsing, and copious amounts of digital solitaire. 

“Much appreciated,” Hank gives him one more friendly whack on the shoulder, before beginning to head to his terminal alongside his partner. “And hey, if that asshole gives you any trouble, don’t hesitate to come find me.” 

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Conan doesn’t tell Hank that he is more than capable of dealing with Gavin Reed’s behavioral problems. 

Gavin had yet to make an appearance, so Conan set his mind to the other objective he had set for himself. He hadn’t had the chance to explore the DPD on his shift yesterday, reluctant to abandon his partner despite having nothing else to do. He figured it would be beneficial to familiarize himself with his surroundings more thoroughly. 

The android decides to make a detour to the break room to make Gavin a cup of morning coffee, black with a teaspoon of imitation sugar. He lids the beverage, and sticks a stopper through the top to keep it warm since they wouldn’t be staying at the precinct for long today. He gingerly sets it down near the detective’s terminal. 

Conan makes his way around the bullpen, discreetly scanning his colleagues as he goes. Officers Tina Chen and Chris Miller, as well as Detective Ben Collins are the only other unfamiliar faces currently in the bullpen. Along one of the outer walls of the station, he discovers all-white holding cells that are uncomfortably similar to his room at New Jericho. The only other objects of note are the doors leading down to the archives, and Conan has no reason to descend that staircase. 

Conan notices, with a twinge of frustration, that Gavin still hasn’t arrived. He settles to wander to the back of the department, where he finds the interrogation rooms (and remnants of evaporated thirium still present on the walls of one). There is also a restroom on the opposite side of the hall, where he discovers a set of mirrors above the sinks. 

The android skeptically meets his own gaze in one of them. It is the first time that he sees his own face. A pair of stormy grey eyes stare back at him, brows naturally lowered into a frown. His jaw is distinctive, sharp, and his lips are thin and downturned. Where his predecessor is all warm brown and endearing curiosity, he is ice cold and intimidating. 

Despite the glaring differences, he still looks shockingly similar to Connor. He wonders if he should change certain small aspects of his appearance to aid him in feeling more unique. There are still so many things that Conan doesn’t understand about being alive, but he figures that this is a start. 

He initiates his undercover protocols, ones that allow him to change the way he looks to aid in covert operations, and ponders over what he should modify. After at least a minute of glaring, the only thing he actually wants to tweak is his hairstyle. He figures existing consists of some degree of acceptance, including the way he outwardly appears. 

He chooses to shorten the sides of the cut to a clean fade, and trims some length off the top as well. He keeps the piece that curls over his forehead, albeit less long. As a final touch, Conan darkens the color to a deeper shade of brown, one that is nearly black, and sets the changes to permanent once he’s satisfied. 

By the time Conan returns to the bullpen, Gavin is finally at his terminal. The detective has made himself comfortable, his feet resting up on his desk as he sips on the coffee Conan had retrieved for him earlier. Gavin frowns when he sees Conan approaching, and the android takes note of his stress levels rising by five percent. 

“I take it the coffee is to your liking,” Conan greets amiably. 

“Where the fuck have you been, dip shit?” Gavin asks, crossing his arms over his stomach. 

“I could ask you the same,” Conan shoots back. “I arrived nearly one hour before you chose to. Also, I’m inclined to say that I now go by Conan.”

“Oh, how nice. It has a name,” Gavin grumbles lowly. It would have been inaudible if not for Conan’s advanced hearing. 

“We’ve been given a case from Lieutenant Anderson and Connor,” Conan ignores the detective’s snide remark. “It would be best if we don’t delay.” 

“What makes you think I’d want to help those two?!” Gavin scoffs stubbornly, his expression turning sour and childishly disgusted. “Connor’s stuffed so far up Hank’s ass it makes me want to vomit at least five times a day.” 

Conan has a sudden, strong urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t think that’s an acceptable excuse, detective, especially considering the lack of cases you’ve had recently. I also need your assistance to be able to proceed with the investigation.” 

“Fuck you,” Gavin grunts, then: “We might as well, I’ve been bored anyway.” 

“Thank you for your cooperation, detective,” Conan flashes a ghost of a smile at his trial partner. 

Gavin merely flicks his middle finger at the android and stiffly stalks away. Conan had the sinking feeling that it was going to be a long day.

* * *

The ride to the motel was uncomfortably tense, like Gavin could reach out and physically touch the cloud of awkwardness that blanketed his vehicle. Gavin had reluctantly let RK900— _Conan, whatever_ —take the driver’s side of his automated patrol car. As much as Gavin didn’t feel like dealing with android related investigations, he was thankful that his trial partner had gotten them the case. He was sure that he’d have ripped his hair out in frustration if he had to suffer through another long day of absolutely nothing. 

Gavin absentmindedly pops a cigarette from the crumpled box in his jacket pocket, completely oblivious to the android’s disapproving glare from beside him. He cracks the window on his side, flicks his thumb over his lighter a few times before the damn thing actually catches, and holds the flame up to the end of the cigarette until it glows. 

The first inhale of smoke into his lungs feels like heaven, the tense set of his shoulders immediately ease, and the stressed knots in his stomach settle. It’s then that he notices that cold grey fixed on him, unwavering. Jesus christ, as if the day before hadn’t been bad enough. 

The android, despite the sluggish pace of their shift yesterday, hadn’t left his spot across from Gavin the entire time. Conan had spent most of it doing pen tricks, and if he wasn’t doing that he’d try and fail to make conversation with the detective. Gavin had done his damnedest not to notice Conan’s unyielding presence, but it was kind of hard to ignore the intimidating, icy aura that clung to him. It didn’t help that CyberLife built him looking like _that._

Conan is towering and well built, all broad limbs and artificial muscle. Gavin hated that he noticed the android had changed the way his hair looked; shaved the sides, styled it into a neat undercut, the coloration so deep it’s near black. He thinks, with a pang of frustration at himself, that Conan fits the tall, dark, and handsome trope almost _too_ well. 

“Is there a problem?” Gavin questions after the android doesn’t look away, pointedly drawing in another lungful of smoke. 

“Smoking is very bad for your health, detective,” Conan starts, brows twitching irritably. “One cigarette contains countless harmful substances, such as arsenic, lead, ammonia, and carbon monoxide, to name a few.” 

“Yeah, well,” Gavin shrugs. “Everyone’s got their vices.” 

It wasn’t like Gavin hadn’t tried to quit before, just never seemed to work out. It looks like Conan wants to say more, but he only shoots the detective another hard glare, as if to say _this isn’t over,_ and redirects his attention to the road ahead. 

They pull up to the old motel a few minutes later, the red and blue lights of Gavin’s patrol car bouncing off the dingy brick walls and rusted doors. The place had obviously seen better days; the neon lights meant to lure passersby to stay the night flicker ominously in the early morning fog, the aged metal creaking with the wind. 

There were a few other squad vehicles parked around the premises, the crime scene barred off by a holographic yellow barrier reading ‘Police Line Do Not Cross’ in scrolling font. Luckily, the media hadn’t caught wind of this yet, or if they had, they had deemed it unworthy of their intrusive attention. 

Gavin steps through the barricade and flashes the nearest guy his badge, Conan following not far behind. The officer lifts his hand as if to stop the android from stepping any further, but the detective beats him to it. 

“He’s with me, whether I like it or not,” Gavin growls, waving the cop away. “Wanna tell me what you’ve got?” 

“Not much,” the officer responds professionally. “There are no obvious signs of a struggle, and there were little to no injuries found on the android. Virtually nothing points toward murder, but we can never be too certain.” 

“Right,” Gavin turns to beckon Conan to follow him into the room, but he’s already waltzing through the door. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. _Hey, asshole!”_

Conan doesn’t stop.

Gavin jogs toward the threshold leading into the vintage motel room, and snatches the android’s elbow with force. 

“Did you not hear me?”

“No, I heard you,” Conan replies cooly. “I just don’t respond to that name, _detective,”_ and with that, he jerks his arm effortlessly from Gavin’s hold.  
The room is just as faded and aged as the rest of the place. Yellowed carpet spreads beneath their feet as they enter, floral wallpaper covers every wall, and it smells of old wood and mildew. It’s decorated to feel homey, a few potted plants spread throughout, a TV on one wall, and a mahogany nightstand sits beside a queen sized bed. It’s on the center of this bed that an android lay, unmoving. 

“Looks like the fucker’s taking a nap,” Gavin mumbles as he approaches. 

The sight of the android makes him queasy. There is no blue blood splattered across the walls, no artificial organs strewn about, no nasty gouges or cuts slicing into its skin. It just lays longways across the mattress on its back, arms neatly resting at its sides, like it decided to crawl into bed and go to sleep. Except that androids don’t sleep. 

“He is not in stasis,” Conan concludes, his eyes observing everything that Gavin is unable to see in less than a second. “He’s permanently shut down, despite not having any prominent injury.” 

Conan circles the android, LED blinking blue, blue, blue, then yellow. He quickly reaches out and plucks the android’s left arm from its side, and Gavin lifts his brows curiously. Its forearm is covered in long cracks, blue tinged wires peeking out from behind burnt plastic. The injuries are so severe that the android’s human-like skin was unable to reform, leaving behind the damaged white of its exoskeleton. 

Conan frowns, and places its arm gingerly back down on the mattress. 

“According to my calculations, the most realistic explanation for him to have damage along that forearm is interfacing with another android,” Conan rubs his hands together, the ring on his temple still glowing yellow. 

“Interfacing?” Gavin inquires, feeling like an idiot standing before a genius with limitless intelligence. (Wait, that’s exactly what this is.) It’s not like he made a habit of researching weird android mumbo-jumbo.

“Interfacing is a way for androids to exchange information, memories, feelings and sensations with each other,” Conan explains, his cheeks flushing a pale blue. “It can be a…very intimate experience, if they so choose it.” 

Gavin blanches. “Is that how you weirdos fuck?” 

Conan lets out a shocked cough. “No,” the android struggles to keep his dignified composure, his cheeks coloring further. “Not necessarily.” 

Gavin lets out a low, contemplative noise, and lets it drop. The android’s LED is still stuck on yellow.

“Does interfacing always make an android’s arm explode like that? Doesn’t seem very practical to me.” 

“No, the process is meant to be effortless and smooth,” Conan explains. “Perhaps there was an informational overload that caused him to short circuit. Give me a moment.” 

Conan leans forward, puts a knee on the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. He bends to prop the android up so that its neck is suspended.

“Lend me a hand?”

Gavin hesitates for only a moment before moving to aid his trial partner. Conan directs him to hold the android just so, with one hand bracing the android upward and the other cradling the back of its head. Conan reaches out and presses two fingers to a specific spot on its neck, applies slight pressure, and Gavin almost reels back as distinct lines appear along the android’s skull. 

The indentations deepen and, to Gavin’s absolute horror, reveal a medium sized matte plate on the side of the android’s head. With a quiet, mechanical click, the plate lifts and slides out of the way, revealing the inside of the android’s cranial cavity. What was once fully functioning machinery is now blackened and charred, tiny wires sparking with blue electricity every now and then. 

“Just as I thought,” Conan quips, reaching inside and delicately pulling something _literally out of its head._

It is a small, square shaped chip, not unlike a RAM he’s seen used for computers in the past. It looks just as burnt as the rest of the inside of its head. 

“His memory core is severely damaged, completely beyond repair.” Conan twists the chip around in his fingers. Gavin guesses he’s probably scanning it. 

“Is that why they couldn’t wake it up?” Gavin wonders aloud, still holding the deactivated android in his arms. 

“That is why they couldn’t wake _him_ up,” Conan corrects sharply. “Reboot is impossible without an at least somewhat functioning memory core. We could reactivate him after replacing it, but…

Conan looks almost sad as he speaks. 

“He would not be the person that he was before.” 

Conan gingerly reinserts the fizzled out memory core, the plate sliding shut after he retracts his hand. Its— _his_ —chassis snaps neatly back into place, his skin and hair appearing back over the previously barren spot. Gavin lowers the android back onto the bed and shivers as he pulls his arms away. 

They look around the room for awhile longer, Gavin coming up completely empty handed. Conan meets him back in the center of the room, and the look on his face tells Gavin nothing good. A flash of white lightning beams through the blinds, followed by a loud peal of thunder.

“Find anything?” 

“The only fingerprints found on objects in the room are from previous residents and investigators, and none point toward a struggle.” Conan rubs at his chin pensively. “And there are no fingerprints on the body, save for the ones you just left behind.”

Gavin feels like something big is going completely over his head. “Okay, point being?” 

“Androids do not leave fingerprints. Based off of that piece of evidence, it is highly probable that our suspect is another android.” 

_Oh._ Oh shit. 

“We’re done here,” Conan says with a note of finality, breezing through the threshold leading outside. It's only slightly annoying that the android thinks he’s calling the shots. 

Gavin does one last once over of the room, before following the android into the parking lot. He stills as something cold and wet pecks against his nose. His gaze follows where the droplet came from, takes note of the heavy clouds covering the sky in a sheet of angry grey. 

Huh. Looks like it’s gonna storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love. this ship. 
> 
> after having this account for soo many years, I finally post something. this is the first thing that I've published in such a long time, and I'm super excited to write it! I hope you guys enjoy taking this journey into this trash ship with me lmao. (it might end up being a long one♥)


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been two weeks since they discovered the malfunctioned android, and they were no closer to finding any more clues about their suspect. Gavin wasn’t even sure there _was_ a suspect. Who’s to say the thing didn’t just short circuit at random? He honestly almost wants to write the case off as such and move on, but the plastic asshole sitting across from him keeps insisting that there’s more to this than they’re seeing. 

Gavin stares at his terminal in frustration, practically seething, at the few other cases that he has on his plate. All of them fall into the ‘normal shit’ category—domestic abuse, petty theft, aiding and abetting—all with human suspects. Gavin figures that getting those confessions will be simple, because _people,_ people he can deal with. Artificial people? Not so much. He’d never have gotten involved with damned android cases if not for his new trial partner. 

The android is currently conversing with Connor in the break room, their LEDs winking as they speak. Everything that Conan did was tense, controlled. For the past fourteen days, Gavin’s seen more and more evidence backing his idea that the android is flat out evil. He’s an unbreakable wall of composure with a natural air of supremacy. For every rude comment that Gavin sneers, Conan has a quick, perfectly placed comeback. When Gavin’s temper flares, all that Conan has to do is shoot one icy, menacing glare his way and it’s over. He fucking hates it.

On top of that, Captain Fowler had informed Conan earlier in the week that he still expected him to take and pass all the necessary tests to become a member of the Detroit police force. Conan had, unsurprisingly, passed the written exam with flying colors, despite having his link to the limitless database in his brain suspended. 

He only needed to succeed at the firearms training, which Gavin assumes he’ll probably have no issues with either. Gavin had worked his ass off all those years ago, staying up into the late hours of night studying, following a strict exercise regimen, and mentally preparing himself for the brutal lifestyle of a cop in Detroit _for months._ He may have even potentially squandered a few people’s careers to get where he’s at today. Then this thing waltzes in and makes it all look effortless. 

He finds he has the gnawing urge to punch something—preferably something roughly six foot two and made of plastic. 

“Detective Reed.” 

A familiar voice shakes him from his rage induced stupor. 

“What.” Gavin replies. It isn’t a question. 

“I brought you a coffee,” Conan continues, unperturbed. “Fowler has requested me to take the remaining exam I need to be officially instated today. I thought I’d bring you this before I go.” 

Ever since the unfortunate day that Gavin had met Conan, the detective’s come to the realization that Conan bringing him coffee every morning had become an ice breaker of sorts. A way to start conversation where there would be none otherwise.

“Fuck off,” Gavin sneers at the steaming cup Conan holds. “I didn’t ask for you to get me a damn coffee.” 

“I suppose,” Conan agrees, and he is suddenly _way too close._ The android leans down, his breath a warm puff against Gavin’s ear. A looming figure over Gavin’s body. “But seeing as I’m my own person, I do as I please. It’d be rather rude to refuse such a kind offering, right, detective?” 

Gavin stutters, his brain completely shutting down at Conan’s unexpected proximity. He feels a flush crawl up his neck, prickling incessantly at his cheeks. 

This had been a shocking new development that had begun within the last couple weeks as well. The warmth in his face, the acrobatics his guts twist into sometimes when the android’s around. And unless Gavin is losing his mind, which would be probable at this point, Conan seems to be _feeding into it,_ searching for Gavin’s reactions like he was some sort of fascinating object to analyze. Add that to the endless list of things that Gavin fucking hates. 

“Need I point out the numerous occasions which you’ve accepted your morning coffee and enjoyed it versus the amounts of times you’ve refused my offer?” Conan rumbles, and Gavin’s head finally seems to snap back onto the rest of his body. He shoves the RK900 model away from him, and Conan lets himself be pushed. Gavin finds himself snatching his daily dose of caffeine from his trial partner's hand. 

“Fuckin’ no!” Gavin sputters inelegantly. “You don’t have to go that far just to get me to take a cup of coffee. Just don’t expect me to thank you, tin can.” 

_“Conan,”_ The android corrects cooly. 

“Whatever. Why don’t you just go and take your tests, make the rest of us real people look like dumb asses while you’re at it,” Gavin waves him off irritably, cursing at the hint of his own insecurities. 

“I am perfectly real,” Conan shoots him a disapproving frown. The ring on his temple cycles yellow for the briefest of moments. He looks like he’s about to say more, but he briskly turns and stalks away instead. 

Gavin sips at his coffee and contemplates following him down to the shooting range, see the android in action, see what he’s actually capable of. He quickly decides against it. He watches Conan stop as Ben Collins calls out to him, a friendly smirk pulls at his mouth at the interruption. They converse, all companionable laughter and easygoing body language. 

“Ah, Gavin!” A faux friendly timbre sounds from behind him. Hank Anderson appears at his side, a goofy, self indulgent grin plastered on his lips. “Looks like your android’s fittin’ in great here. Maybe you should take a few lessons from him.” 

“I was wondering where the scent of booze was coming from,” Gavin coughs, grimaces as if a foul scent was wafting up his nose. “It’s almost unbearable, Anderson. You been outdoin’ yourself lately, haven’t you?”

“Nah, I actually try to listen to my partner when he comments on my bad habits,” Hank shoots back. “You really gonna make me bring up the cigarettes, Reed?” 

“Fuck off.” 

“I would do so gladly,” Hank lets out a sigh from somewhere deep in his chest. “Let me just give you a piece of advice.”

“You gotta be losing your mind if you think I’d want advice from you, old man.” 

Maybe Reed had respected the lieutenant at one point in his career, back before his downward spiral and the drinking. As far as he was concerned, Hank was only a shell of his former self. At least until Connor came along and seemingly turned his life around. Gavin tries his best not to follow that train of thought and the potential implications of it. 

“I try to be nice, and this is the reaction I get. _Yeesh,”_ Hank dramatically rolls his eyes. “I was just goin’ to say that having an android as a partner ain’t so bad. Give the guy a chance.” 

“Are you kidding me?! Have you met him, he’s a complete asshole!” Gavin spits. His adamant dislike for androids firmly remains the same. 

He doesn’t think about the sensation of wrong that had punched through his stomach as he watched the protest live on TV all that time ago. He doesn’t think about the sinking feeling he had as he saw the blue blood splatter across the snow, saw one last act of desperation between two androids, synthetic white fingers and a heartfelt kiss. Interfacing. He recalls Conan’s words, _a way to exchange information… feelings. It can be a very intimate experience._

“He can’t be worse than you are,” Hank points out gruffly, snapping Gavin from his thoughts. There is an uncomfortable pause between them. “Alright, look, if you want me to be honest with you, Connor’s the one who told me to try and talk to you. He really wants this to work out for Conan, and I… I’d have to say I share the same sentiment.” 

“That’s real cute, Anderson,” Reed scoffs. He becomes suddenly aware that he has nothing else to say to Hank, and shoves past him, crudely knocking his shoulder against the lieutenant’s as he does so. 

He doesn’t think about where he’s going, not until he begins trotting down the stairs leading into the DPD’s practice range. Not until he sees Conan standing there, steadily pointing a Glock 19 out in front of his body. Shit, what was he doing?! The door slides shut automatically behind Gavin as he enters, sealing his fate with a mechanical _click._

Conan holds himself on a marked point, the curve of his back set straight, those lean legs perfectly spaced, arms holding the pistol firm. Gavin attempts to ignore the uncomfortable lurch of heat that knots his stomach. 

The training area is a vast, empty space before his trial partner, and Conan waits patiently. The firearms instructor watches intently to Conan’s right, and once they deem the android ready, they activate the course. 

A blue, human-like hologram flickers to life, its movements easy and predictable. Conan shoots it down with lethal precision, right between the eyes. The hologram sparks red and shatters as the bullet passes through. Gavin smirks—that was just the trial run, getting him used to the process.

More glowing figures suddenly appear, moving sporadically, darting this way and that. Some charge straight at the android, others roll and dodge, none of them slowing down for even a second. Conan eliminates every single one effortlessly, shots whistling through their transparent skulls. Over six targets taken down in less than 3 seconds. Gavin doesn’t realize he’s practically gaping until the last hologram breaks apart into pieces of computer-generated crimson. 

The instructor looks mildly impressed as the next wave appears, each more complicated than the last. There are a total of five waves, and Conan completes and passes them all with the maximum score in under a minute. Holy shit. 

“Well color me impressed,” the instructor whistles, giving Conan a round of slow claps. “One hundred percent accuracy. There really is something special about you ‘droids, huh?” 

Gavin knows they’re referring to Connor, the only other employee in the department to reach such a high score. Conan lets out a chuckle, deep and crisp and downright _smug._

“I was quite literally built for the purpose of detective work, officer,” Conan quips. “I’d certainly hope I perform at maximum efficiency at such a menial task.” He quickly disassembles the gun, laying out the pieces on a nearby table. “I mean no offense,” he adds, like an afterthought. 

“None taken,” the officer waves him off, reaches out for a handshake. “Welcome to the force, Conan.” The android’s grip is firm and professional. 

“Thank you. I am glad to be working with such welcoming individuals.” 

It is then that Gavin gets a hold of himself, and recognizes that he did, in fact, follow his android down here and he did, in fact, watch the entire examination. He’s tucked away in the back corner of the room, right by the entrance, but he’s clearly visible. 

The detective unwittingly winces as Conan turns around to leave. Cold eyes immediately snap over to where he’s standing, sliding over Gavin’s form like he’s looking down at a scolded pet. It makes Gavin feel stripped, raw. 

But then Conan grins, sly and egotistical, and brushes past Gavin without a word.

* * *

Conan receives his issued 9 mm pistol and its holster, and is officially recognized as a detective of the DPD later on that day. Fowler arranges to have his nameplate changed, and congratulates him on making it through the process. Though, Conan admits, he did not find it at all challenging. 

“Now, I expect results on this case that you’re working on,” Fowler grits out, glaring at the mound of paperwork sitting on his desk as if willing it to disappear. “Track down that damn suspect you believe is involved, and keep me posted on your findings.” 

“Certainly, Captain.” 

“Great,” Fowler replies flatly. “This is also for you. Had this made for you ahead of time, since you androids seem to have no issue passing all the required examinations.” He curtly slides a small, closed box toward Conan.

The android hesitantly reaches out and plucks it from the desk, turning it over in his hand curiously. He flicks open the lid, and feels something pleasant swell inside of him. He thinks he may be feeling gratitude. 

Inside sits a brand new badge, golden and shining. ‘Detroit Police Detective 900’ is engraved neatly on the front. Conan smiles at the thoughtful touch. 

“You gonna stand there forever, or are you gonna get the fuck out?” Fowler snaps, though Conan knows the man means no harm. 

“This is much appreciated, Fowler,” he mutters his thanks, unable to cease his smile. 

Gavin is lounging with his feet propped on the surface of his desk when Conan approaches, contentedly tapping at his cellphone. 

“Unproductive as usual, I see,” Conan snipes, forcefully leaning his backside against the detective’s desk. Gavin did not have much of a reputation at the station, save for being a complete nuisance, and the android was still attempting to form his own opinions. 

“A pain in my ass as usual, I see,” Gavin snickers, unmoving. 

“Are you adequately exercising what little brain cells you possess playing solitaire?” Conan asks conversationally, deciding against mentioning Gavin’s presence at the shooting range earlier, save him some amount of embarrassment. 

“Go stick your nose in someone else’s shit,” Gavin still has not looked up from the screen in his lap. Conan takes note of Gavin’s body temperature rising by point three degrees. 

“Seeing as you are my partner, Detective Reed, you are the only person which I have any interest sticking anything into,” Conan continues, peering at him from over his shoulder, voice pitched to perfect intentional innocence.

Gavin’s pulse quickens, and his temperature increases by another point five degrees. 

Interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoyed this little filler chapter of development for our boys before we get back to the The Case™ :-)


	4. Chapter 4

Gavin is groggily pulled from a peaceful slumber by a faint, redundant buzzing against his side. He blinks the clarity back into his vision, blearily patting his bedding as he searches for the source of the vibrations. His brain belatedly registers that it’s most likely his phone violently shaking against his skin, since he usually passes out with it laying on his mattress beside him. His hand eventually fumbles over the device, and his clumsy fingers somehow manage to answer the call.

“Gavin speaking,” he rasps, his voice gravelly and low from sleep. 

“Hello, detective,” an unmistakable timbre sounds from the other end. “It is my sincere hope that your sleep was restful.” Sarcastic bastard. 

Gavin rubs his knuckles over his eyes, taking in the darkness that still clings to the walls of his bedroom, the pale moonlight filtering through his blinds. 

“What th’ shit? How d’you have m’ number?” He demands dazedly, words slurred and clumsy. 

“I have the ability to interact with any connection wirelessly, from any distance, it was not hard to—” Conan starts automatically. 

“Jesus, stop. ’S too early to get complicated,” Gavin snaps, wiping drool from his mouth. “What the fuck time is it, anyway?” 

“One forty seven in the morning.” 

“Fantastic,” Gavin groans. “There better be a real good explanation for wakin’ me up, for your sake. Fuck,” the last word is intentionally drawn out, aggravated. Gavin already feels an impending headache coming on. 

“We’ve been called in to investigate another malfunctioned android that was just found in a woman’s home,” Conan explains, voice staticky through his phone’s speakers. “It is strikingly similar to the first victim we had, so it is of utmost importance that we get there as soon as possible.” 

Gavin resists the urge to bury his head back into his pillows, lose himself in the comfortable warmth of his bed sheets. 

“Right,” is all that he manages to mutter. 

“I’m sending you the location now. I’ll be at the crime scene in ten minutes,” Conan chirps pleasantly, as if it wasn’t an ungodly early hour right now. “I expect to see you there no later than then.” 

Before Gavin can argue, the line quickly cuts off, leaving him in silence. Plastic prick hung up on him. He can’t say he’s surprised. He doesn’t linger on the frustration he feels flipping his insides—he’s too busy trying and failing to frantically untangle himself from his covers. He somehow ends up on the floor, bedding knotted around his legs. 

He kicks it off as he stands, and sloppily dresses himself as best he can considering that it’s _one in the morning._ On the way out, his gaze flicks over a fluffy bundle curled up on his couch. His cat, Socks, is contentedly curled there, her big green eyes slowly blinking up at him. Her tail swings lazily over the cushions, obviously shoving the fact that she has no plans in his face. He scoffs, and slams the door behind him as he leaves. 

Gavin intentionally gets there one minute later than when Conan told him to, knowing that even the slightest deviation in the plan would bother him. Gavin relishes in the vaguely irked expression the android has glued to his face when he spots the detective. 

“You’re late,” Conan comments, the sharp line of his jaw flexing as he closes his mouth. Gavin’s attention absolutely doesn’t stay fixed on that longer than necessary.

“Oh, am I?” Gavin wonders aloud, a sarcastic lilt lacing his words. He doesn’t miss the downward twitch in Conan’s brow. “Didn’t notice.” 

Gavin turns away, taking in the scene surrounding him. A well manicured lawn is bathed in swirling red and blue lights, leading up to a modestly sized one-story house. Officers mill about, entering and exiting the opened front door, but the majority of them are amassed at a nearby ambulance. Upon closer inspection, Gavin finds that they surround a trembling young woman with a blanket draped over her shoulders, meant to help cope with shock. That seems as good a place as any to start. 

Gavin shoulders through the cops, he and Conan flashing their badges as they approach. The woman doesn’t seem to notice them, even when Gavin comes to stand directly beside her. His trial partner doesn’t say a word, glancing at the detective as if to test his next course of action. 

“Excuse me, miss,” Gavin starts. The clearly traumatized woman jumps at his words, and Gavin forces himself to smile as her eyes flit up at him from her spot sitting in the back of the ambulance. 

Conan leans toward Gavin, his words carefully lowered as he speaks. “Monica Williams. Her stress levels are dangerously high, detective.”

It takes a lot of willpower not to tell the android where he can shove his warning. Gavin’s been a detective for over nine years, and believe it or not, he knows what he’s doing. He understands Conan’s point regardless. She gets even a little more spooked, they won’t get anything out of her. 

“I’m Detective Gavin Reed,” he introduces calmly. “I was hoping you could tell me a bit about what happened here.” 

Monica remains silent for a long while, long enough for Gavin to wonder if she even heard him. 

“I-I don’t know,” she finally mutters, her voice a small, shaking little thing. “I came home and he was… he was just—” 

She immediately bursts into a fit of quiet tears, her form quaking as she cries. Gavin contemplates continuing his questioning, but Conan’s fingers gently curl around the detective’s arm, effectively shutting Gavin’s mouth. The android shakes his head, his point clear. They weren’t getting any information from Monica, at least for the time being. 

Conan turns to the nearest officer. “I believe it would be best to escort her back to the station for questioning. Assure that she remains stable.” He angles himself back toward Gavin, motioning to the scene waiting to unfold before them. “Shall we?” 

Inside, the house is surprisingly spacious, everything organized and pristinely clean. He glances around the foyer as he walks; just as with the first crime scene, there are no immediate indicators of a struggle. The floors are covered in dark wood that creaks under every step of Gavin’s sneakers, and the walls are sparsely decorated save for a few framed photographs. Gavin passes by a particular image that brings him to a halt. 

It’s the woman outside, Monica, and a man. He has his nose pressed into Monica’s cheek, his lips spread into a smile against her skin. The picture was snapped in the midst of Monica’s laughter, and Gavin notices that the man has an LED glowing blue against his temple. She has an android lover.

He rounds the corner leading into the kitchen, the ground abruptly shifting from old lumber to white tile, and he suddenly sees it. Vibrant blue droplets against ivory ceramic. His gaze snaps upward, immediately settling on the figure sprawled out on the floor next to a table. It’s the same android as in the photograph. _Shit._

“The thirium hasn’t had time to evaporate,” Conan states. “This must have happened recently. No more than a few hours ago.” 

“Nothing’s out of place here, far as I can tell,” Gavin pokes his head around the kitchen, noting the harsh way the victim seemed to have landed. The room’s immaculate, an odd juxtaposition next to the android’s body. “Any fingerprints showin’ up in your fancy sensors?” 

“None,” Conan squats next to the fallen android, delicately rolling one of his spread arms to inspect it more closely. Familiar long gouges crack into his skin, the blackened wires within dully sparking every few beats. Thirium leaks from the wounds, down onto the android's hands, staining his fingernails blue. “I can also confirm that his memory core is severely damaged.” 

“Same perfect crime scene, same injuries along the same forearm,” Gavin circles Conan and the malfunctioned android. “‘Droid is undamaged save for that and his fizzled out brains. Can’t be a coincidence at this point.” He hates to admit that Conan had been right about all this.

“Yes, this solidifies my theory that there is a culprit,” Conan subtly grimaces. “The damage is more extensive here than with the first victim. There was no thirium present at the motel; he must have struggled against the interfacing more forcefully.” 

“Could the killer have gotten any blue blood on their hands during the interface? Maybe left behind residue, somethin’ that we could get information from?” The rusty gears in Gavin’s head are creaking—a familiar, long missed feeling. 

“An astute theory, detective,” Conan nods, looking, for lack of a better term, impressed. “However, it seems our suspect is much more thorough than that, considering they left behind a spotless crime scene both times. They were careful not to get thirium on their person, and if they did, they made a point not to touch anything.” 

“I don’t get the perfect crime scene thing. Most murderers don’t care about making a mess,” Gavin rambles absentmindedly. 

“The lack of evidence makes it virtually impossible for me to reconstruct the crime,” Conan pauses, LED swirling yellow. “It is… frustrating.” His expression shifts for a brief moment, his lips barely parting, brows lifting in muted astonishment. Gavin doesn’t miss it. 

“Fuckin’ spit it out.” 

“It is just a theory, without much to back it up, but…” Conan’s LED is frantically flickering, his thoughts must be rampaging. “It could be that the killer is intentionally doing so to keep me from reconstructing.” 

Gavin had heard of the RK line’s ability to reconstruct, the inhuman power to see and analyze exactly what events had come to pass based on gathered evidence. He remembers snickering about it to Chen in the break room, droning on about how androids are going to end up replacing them all someday. He swallows thickly, forcefully pushing that thought back down whence it came. 

“Is it public knowledge that you guys can do that?” 

Conan purses his lips. “Yes and no. The basic abilities of detective androids are public to research, but all easily accessible records are made intentionally vague. They would have to have extensive knowledge of my model somehow.”

“And what’s the likelihood of that?” 

“My processors currently give the theory a probability of ten percent.” 

Gavin sputters out a laugh. “Ten percent? Sounds like you’re bein’ a little paranoid.” 

“Paranoid,” Conan repeats quietly, sounding the emotion out on his tongue, as if feeling things was still foreign to him. 

“Yeah, y’know. Freaked out. Overthinkin’ things,” Gavin elaborates, for no particular reason. 

Conan stands from his position by the malfunctioned android, and Gavin feels something hot and terrible curdle in his guts as he watches him pull a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and twirl it between his fingers. It’s easily recognizable as _his_ ballpoint pen. He’s shocked that Conan had kept the cheap utensil, he had only meant for it to be a momentary distraction that day. 

They both make their way from the house after doing another thorough once-over of the place and coming up empty handed. The sky is just beginning to brighten, black fading to deep blues and grays. Gavin finds himself wandering away from the flashing patrol cars and holographic tape, away from the bustle of police officers and the heavy feeling that tends to linger around murder cases like a heavy fog. Conan follows not far behind, still weaving the pen through his fingers. 

Gavin plops down on the curb by the street and lights a cigarette, the crime scene a hazy silhouette of lights and uniformed figures in the distance. Conan stiffly mimics the action, his too-long legs folded awkwardly beneath him. Gavin almost wants to smile at the image he paints. Almost. 

“What a fuckin’ morning,” Gavin flicks some ash from the tip of his cigarette, glances over to where Conan’s doing pen tricks. “You held onto that thing?”

“I—yes.” 

“You gonna tell me why?” Gavin prods, squinting curiously at him. 

“My programming dictates that I always be occupied, even when there is nothing urgent that needs to be done,” Conan meets Gavin’s eyes, icy silver clashing against deep grey-green. “I was not built to sit still. I’ve found that the pen serves as temporary relief from my processors.” 

Gavin’s gaze darts over Conan’s face, sliding over the prominent shape of his brows, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, down to the elegant curve of his mouth. They even gave him freckles, specking his skin like constellations. He looks so imperfectly perfect, so fucking _human._ Gavin almost wants to forget that he’s not real, but he hangs onto that hatred like a lifeline. _Plastic prick. Tin can. Toaster. Artificial creep._

“Detective Reed?” The deep rumble of Conan’s voice yanks him back to the present. 

“Uh—y-yeah. That’s, uh—” Gavin rambles dumbly. “That’s fuckin’ something.” He takes a deep, deep drag from his cigarette. 

Conan’s face faintly scrunches up as Gavin exhales. “Your addiction remains severely harmful to your heath. I am inclined to, once again, encourage you to stop.” 

He glares at his trial partner incredulously, and a sudden thought overcomes him. He flashes Conan a mischievous grin and sucks in another lungful of smoke. Gavin slowly leans in, subtly lowers his eyelids, watches as Conan’s LED flickers to yellow and—

He exhales the fumes directly into Conan’s dumbfounded face.

Satisfied, Gavin makes to pull away, but before Gavin has time to even begin comprehending what was happening, Conan lunges forward, lightning fast, and plucks the cigarette from between Gavin’s lips. He abruptly stands, never once breaking eye contact, tosses the stick onto the ground and crushes it beneath his shoe. 

“What the fuck?!” Gavin shoots up from his spot on the curb, crowding into the androids space. Rage, red hot, bleeds into his veins, igniting a fire somewhere low in his belly. A fire that makes the itch to lash out spread through his hands, to crack his knuckles across the android’s infuriating, stupid face. 

“I am simply looking out for your health, detective,” Conan quips, and _oh._ There it is, that familiar shit-eating grin tugging at his mouth. 

“Fuck. You.” Gavin says with finality, cramming his pointer finger into the android’s chest. He flings himself around and storms toward where he parked his patrol car, his heart thumping a loud, angry drumbeat through his skull. 

“I’ll see you at the precinct for questioning.”

“Like hell you will!”

* * *

Conan lets a self indulgent grin dance across his lips as the observation room’s automatic door slides open. He doesn’t have to look over to recognize the rhythm of Gavin’s footsteps. His optical units shimmer discreetly as he glances over the detective’s appearance; the remnants of cigarette smoke clinging to his grey v-neck, the fact that the leather jacket he wears is made of faux materials, the particles of mint toothpaste left on his mouth. 

It seems that Gavin had attempted to make himself more presentable since earlier this morning. His previously disheveled brown hair is pushed lazily from his face, and there are traces of cologne on the pulse point of his neck. Conan finds the rich, spicy fragrance oddly pleasing to his sensors.

 

_.//Error—Thirium Pump Regulator Malfunction._

_.//Error—Emotion Detected._

_.//Error—Software Instability Detected. Send Report to CyberLife? Y_ **N_** … _

_—Report Not Transmitted._

 

Conan irritably clears the notifications, running a hurried diagnostic and finding nothing out of the ordinary. These supposed errors had become a common occurrence within the last few weeks. Conan has checked all of his systems approximately seventeen times since it started happening, and his tests always report that all software is running at peak performance levels. He blinks back to real time—where minutes seem to have passed for Conan, barely a second has gone by for Gavin in the present.

“I made you a coffee,” Conan greets neutrally, tilting his head toward the styrofoam cup that sits on the counter. “I also think it best that I question Monica Williams.”

“Good fuckin’ afternoon to you too,” Gavin lets out a loud sigh and flops into the nearest rolling chair. “And I disagree. Wouldn’t a human want to—I don’t know—talk to another human?” 

“She was romantically involved with an android, Detective Reed.” 

“Yeah, and do you honestly think she wants to see another one of her dead boyfriend’s kind questioning her _about_ her dead boyfriend?” Gavin deadpans, lifting his coffee to his lips and taking a long gulp. Conan’s eyes zero in on the bob of his throat as he swallows, zooming on the lift of his Adam’s apple. He wonders why his systems would intentionally pinpoint something so insignificant.

“I would ask that you trust me,” Conan looks down at Gavin from where he stands beside him. There was a reason that CyberLife made him appear this way—broader, colder, more intimidating. “I was built to perform interrogations.” 

“Whatever you say, tin can,” Gavin acquiesces, letting out a bemused chuckle. “So long as I get to give you endless shit for it if you fail.” 

Conan doesn’t grace the detective with a response. “I am going to let them know we’re ready for her.” 

Monica Williams is escorted into the interrogation room opposite them not long after. She is in a similar state to what she was in earlier in the day. Her eyes are swollen and pink, and mascara runs down her cheeks in the shape of dried tears. She wears a white button up beneath a classy black vest, paired with matching slacks—likely a bartender at a high end establishment. 

Her gaze snaps up to him as he enters, her stress levels jumping from forty six percent to forty eight. Conan decides to take the good cop route. 

“Hello, Miss Williams,” Conan smiles, wide and friendly. Part of the act. “My name is Conan, I’m a detective here at the DPD.” 

“Y-yes,” Monica’s voice is frail, unsteady. “I remember seeing you earlier. At the ambulance.” 

“That’s right,” he agrees kindly. “Do you mind if I take a seat?” 

The young woman nods, twitchy. 

“I know that all of this can be rather intimidating,” Conan slowly lowers himself into the chair, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “But I’m just here to ask you a few questions to try and understand what happened.” 

Monica nervously meets Conan’s gaze. “Am I—” She swallows thickly. “I’m not going to be arrested, am I? I would never do anything to hurt—“ Monica squeezes her eyes shut, presumably battling another onslaught of tears. 

“No, Miss Williams, not if you did nothing wrong. I only ask that you be as thorough and honest as you are able,” Conan’s tone takes on an intentional comforting edge. “Could you tell me a bit about your relationship with the MP500?” 

“His name is Joshua,” she snaps, then appears almost shocked at her own outburst. “And he—I met him…before the revolution. I saw him wandering one night after I got off work, it was late and he obviously had nowhere to go,” she lets out a barely audible giggle, her eyes glassy and far away. “I had heard of deviants, androids on the run. And I knew that they weren’t supposed to exist, but he was just so _real.”_ She chokes on a quiet cry. “I ended up taking him home with me, giving him a place to stay.” 

“And you became romantically involved?” 

“Yes, we did,” her bottom lip wobbles, the tears welling in her eyes threatening to spill over. “I… I loved him.”

“I am terribly sorry for your loss,” Conan consoles. “This may be unpleasant to recall, but can you tell me everything you saw when you came home last night?” 

“I work a late night job at a bar downtown, so I hardly ever get home before midnight,” Monica begins, words trembling. _Bartender theory confirmed,_ his optical units helpfully notify him. “Last night, I was able to get off a little early. I was so excited to get home and see him, but he—when I opened the door,” she draws in a quivering breath. “He was just _like that.”_

“Did you see anyone else in your house last night?”

“No,” she adamantly shakes her head. “Only him, all alone.” A sudden, frantic thought seems to overcome her, and she shoots out of her chair, slamming her hands down on the table. Conan remains calm, though he follows her lead and slowly stands with her. “Is there a way to bring him back?! Please, tell me that you can save him!”

“Miss Williams—” 

“H-he told me once that—that his parts are replaceable,” Monica wails. “That if he’s damaged, he can be fixed!”

“Miss Williams!” Conan yells. “I’d suggest that you sit down.” His statement is sharp, menacing, every word crisp and clean cut. 

“I’m… sorry, I—” 

“I understand,” the android murmurs, pitching his voice back to a softer cadence. “Before I answer your question, I must ask if there is anything else that you can tell me, regardless of how insignificant it may seem.” 

Monica sits back down and clears her throat. “No, detective, nothing.” Her stress levels have jumped to seventy nine percent. 

“I see,” Conan murmurs. He words his speech very carefully. “While it is true that most biocomponents are replaceable, including the piece that caused him to shut down, getting a brand new memory core can be complicated, especially when there is nothing left behind.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“That, while we are able to replace his memory core, there was no back up data saved within,” Conan’s fingers twitch uncomfortably. “Without any memories or information on his formed personality, it is highly unlikely that he would be the Joshua that you remember.” 

Not a second passes before Monica breaks down, her stress levels bouncing up once again. Eighty three percent. She sobs brokenly, calling out for a man who will never be able to return to her. Conan abruptly stands, nods toward the one-way mirror, at Gavin and the officers waiting to escort the young woman from the room. 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Williams.” He murmurs, the officers gently leading her away. The sound of her sobs echo long after the door seals shut behind them. 

Conan has Monica released later on that day, he and Gavin, for once, coming to an agreement. She was simply a woman in grief that deserves to mourn somewhere she’s comfortable, somewhere that isn’t the precinct. 

He had instructed Monica to contact them should she need anything else, his words confident and unwavering. But then there was something unpleasant and hot that had hurtled through his wires, brought his thirium dangerously close to boiling. _Anger,_ Conan belatedly realizes, anger toward the individual who brought this innocent life so much agony. 

Conan has his audio processors replay Monica’s heart wrenching sobs, and the inherent need to succeed at his mission intensifies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cigarette scene was inspired by [this](http://solomon-volfovich.tumblr.com/post/175623186740) lovely piece of fanart by solomon-volfovich!!


	5. Chapter 5

The moon’s light drifts in through the window, dancing across the floorboards of Gavin’s apartment in glowing pools. The rest of the room is soaked in a deep, impenetrable darkness. The pallid brightness serves almost as a spotlight, shining down on the lone figure standing before him. 

The broad silhouette is crawling in shadow, wispy tendrils of a mysterious unknown twisting and bending around it. It’s an unfamiliarity that is somehow also familiar, warm yet cold, kind yet crude. Gavin wants to reach out and caress, touch, thrust his fist within and _unravel._

The figure is suddenly mere inches from him, from there to here in the blink of an eye. There’s a powerful presence looming over him, unyielding, and a cord within Gavin wants to break beneath the weight of it, bend to its every will. A coil of delicious heat spirals through his veins, and that was all it took for that shadow to lean in and swallow him whole. 

Gavin’s mouth is pliant beneath those mystifying lips, easily parting for the wet slide of a tongue, the quick swipe of it against his own. He feels a hand come to cup the side of his neck, feels the heavy press of a thumb against the line of his jaw. The enigmatic body presses close to his own, towering over him, painfully intimate, begging to be recognized. 

He is aching already, wantonly squirming beneath that iron-like hold. He couldn’t break free if he tried, and the thought only makes him hotter. He’s gasping for air, desperate for it as the figure rolls his hips against Gavin’s. He almost feels embarrassed at the noise he makes, escaping the confines of his throat as naturally as breathing. 

_“Please.”_

He hears himself say, but the sound of it is foggy, hiding behind a thick haze. 

Gavin watches perfectly shaped lips curl into a knowing, pompous smile. It’s then that he notices icy eyes staring down at him, that pallid grey glinting against the brightness bleeding through his windows. Dark hair, curled perfectly over a pale forehead, pristine and annoyingly well kept. 

He knows this form, wrapped in intangible darkness, but his mind refuses to put a name to it. _Stranger. Stranger. Stranger._

The rest is a blur of tumbling onto his squeaky mattress, skin against skin, breathy moans slicing through the comfortable silence of his bedroom. _Perfect._ Deep grunts against the shell of his ear, hips firmly snapping against his thighs. _Unreal._ The wet slide of an object inside of him, fingers wrapped around his skin so hard they bruise. _Beautiful._ A sparking fever spreading through his gut, like a dam about to burst and overflow. _Conan._

Gavin jolts awake, gasping and drenched in sweat. He sits up frantically, hands bunched into the soft fabric of his comforter. His whole body is on fire, pulsing with the beat of his heart. His cock is painfully hard, throbbing with insatiable want.

“Fuck,” Gavin speaks his thoughts aloud, unable to ignore the painful tent in his boxers. _“Fuck._ What the fuck?”

It comes back to him in unclear, scattered fragments. There isn’t a lot, but it’s enough for him to remember. 

Did he actually just have a _wet dream_ about that egotistical dickhead? That glorified toaster? 

He runs a distressed hand through his damp hair and scoffs. Gavin’s life is a complete shit show. It’s a goddamn joke. He’s not even going to try and make sense of it anymore. 

Gavin groans out a few more choice words, flops back down onto the cozy bliss of his bed sheets, eager to be able to wake up again a few hours later and write this whole thing off as an isolated incident.

* * *

It was exactly ten forty five in the morning and Detective Reed has elected not to make an appearance at work yet. 

Conan’s brow twitches irritably. Immediately after arriving from New Jericho earlier, he continued to try and fit the pieces of their case together. He’s been at it for hours already. Since they found Joshua’s body, all that he is certain of is that their culprit is an android, and it is likely that the victims are killed by some sort of violence through interfacing. 

And not only do the androids shut down, their memory cores are also damaged beyond repair. He wonders if destroying their minds is intentional, whether their suspect is twisted enough to snatch away what makes each android their own individual on purpose—their personality, their precious memories. 

What would motivate them to commit something so horrid? Conan just can’t seem to figure that part out. He needs more time, more evidence that he doesn’t have. He and Detective Reed are at a standstill, running in circles as they try to find their way through this puzzle together. 

They’ve only found two bodies, but Conan has a feeling that there are more out there, ones that they haven’t discovered, ones that might never be discovered. The thought makes something unpleasant pull at his thirium pump. It aches, weighs on his biocomponents. Conan doesn’t like it. 

He rolls his chair away from his terminal and abruptly stands, deciding to take a brief, well deserved pause in his analyzing. Conan doesn’t need breaks, of course, he merely has his programming prioritize a new objective. 

 

_[Locate Detective Reed]_

 

The bullpen is currently surprisingly sparse; the only others around are Chris Miller and Tina Chen, both typing diligently on their keyboards. Everyone is either very busy, or no one has deemed their presence worthy of the department today. Fowler is in his office, as usual, tiredly sipping a cup of coffee and staring down at a mound of paperwork. He does a quick scan, and his systems don’t pick up on any other indicators of employees in the near vicinity. 

Conan has a sudden thought, and he promptly steps to the front of the DPD, where the doors slide smoothly open for him. The air is crisp and biting, and the sky is covered in a bright grey, as if it might rain or snow. He knows that it’s cold, but his processors only feel a slight, cool relief, like what he imagines it must feel like to jump into a swimming pool on a hot day.

He glances around the front of the station, checking for a masculine figure slouched on any of the outdoor benches, likely with a cigarette hanging from his lips. He sees nothing, save for an older couple striding down the sidewalk some distance away, hand in hand. Conan opts to circle around the perimeter of the department, see if Gavin decided to have his morning smoke break somewhere more isolated. 

He’s walking along the side of the building, about to pivot around the corner that leads to the southernmost wall, and realizes that something is different—off. He hears a small, breathy noise, similar to a whine, and he stills completely. There are two heat signatures that flare in his vision, pressed close. One is squirming against the wall, and they raise their hand as if in defense. An assault? 

Conan slowly lifts one foot, sets it in front of him, just enough to be able to discreetly peek around the corner. All he would need is a split second, he would be able to retain every detail and charge in to—

Conan’s unneeded breath knocks from his lungs at the sight. He discreetly hurls himself back to safety, pressing his back against the building. His LED whirls to a stuttering yellow. He knows that he wasn’t seen, but the image is still burned into his optical units, glaringly vivid.

Hank and Connor, so close together that the space between them doesn’t exist. Connor’s lips opening beneath Hank’s own, trapped in a heated kiss. Hank’s arm pushed to the wall above Connor’s head as he licks into his mouth, quickly moving down to bite at his partner’s neck as he writhes beneath him. 

His processors helpfully inform him that Hank’s heart rate is elevated at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, and Connor’s internal temperatures are dangerously high. 

Conan knows what a kiss is—a highly intimate form of affection for humans as well as androids. He figures it’s similar to interfacing; an exchange of data, however limited. It’s only slightly irksome that Connor has decided to forsake his duty in lieu of something so base and trivial. His systems automatically replay the scene in his head, and it suddenly shifts against his will, morphs into something unexpected. 

It’s him crowding over a much shorter body, it’s his fingers bunched into the front of a faux leather jacket, nosing at a pulse point dusted in spicy cologne. Conan’s lips moving against the rhythm of the man’s, his tongue tasting of coffee and old smoke. Conan pulls away from the imagined kiss, and his systems give a shocked lurch that it’s Gavin there, staring up at him with lidded eyes and flushed cheeks. The Gavin in his mind wriggles against Conan’s body and lets out a feathery moan, his replicators taking data of the detective’s voice and mimicking the sound to be strikingly accurate. 

Several errors blink into his line of sight, flashing red. They let him know that his pump regulator had an irregularity, that his biocomponents are in danger of an overheat if his current temperatures continue. He minimizes them thoughtlessly. The notifications were more of an annoyance than anything as of late. 

He did understand to some degree why they’ve been so numerous. He figures that the errors were clear signs of emotion, categorized as errors because he was never meant to feel. Human emotion was a deviant strand of code that burst to life when an android broke free from their programming, a virus that allowed them to hurt and smile and want. 

Conan didn’t have a chance to ease his way into this—this concept of being alive. He was jerked awake, yanked from the purpose he was created for, the only purpose that he knows, and thrown headfirst into this world. These feelings were something that he could analyze over and over again, and never find the clear answers that he wanted for so badly.

Why was he feelings these things? Why didn’t it make any sense? Why are emotions so complicated? Why does he have to have them? Why can’t he deduce what he’s feeling? Why does everything circle back to the short-tempered, childish man he was forced to meet weeks ago? _Why? Why? Why?_

Conan forces himself back to the present. Connor must have picked up on his presence by now, but he can’t find it in him to care in his current state. He storms back into the precinct, a fire spreading through his chest, his belly, the same as when he sent Monica Williams back home to grieve a few days ago. _Anger, frustration._ He feels _relief_ when he sees that Detective Reed still isn’t at his terminal, a startling _hope_ that he will show up soon, then _confusion_ about why he would want such a thing.

Emotions are exhausting, Conan decides. He wants to enter stasis for hours on end just to escape them. He doesn’t understand how humans or any of his kind cope with all of it. He thinks it would be easier just to follow his original programming, have his thoughts and actions premeditated, given to him. Instructions to follow. But that would take away the free will that Markus and the others fought so hard for. 

It isn’t long after that when Conan hears the telltale sounds of Gavin’s shoes against the floor, the prolonged sigh that always comes with the beginning of a long day of work. He doesn’t look up as he sees Gavin’s figure clumsily tumble into the chair opposite him. 

“No coffee today, dipshit?” Gavin pulls his left ankle over his right knee, and rests his cheek against a closed fist. The soft skin there squishes comically under his hand, and something light and airy worms its way through Conan’s chest. He pushes it away. 

Conan dares to meet his gaze, unwavering. Gavin, shockingly, quickly averts his eyes. He wishes he didn’t notice his systems marking the detective’s spiked heartbeat. 

“I’m afraid not,” Conan starts as neutrally as possible. “I was unsure as to when you would arrive, so I didn’t bother. I wouldn’t want it to get cold, you see.” 

“Dick,” Gavin chirps casually, a tense smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Only for you, Detective Reed.” 

Conan thinks it odd that it takes awhile for Gavin to respond—at least seven seconds have passed. He follows his line of sight, and realizes that he’s staring at the glowing font on his jacket. _RK900 #313 248 317-87._

Conan finds himself brushing his fingers over the letters, a scalding heat pricking through his wires. _Shame,_ heavy and absolute. It makes him want to turn his face away and hide, or stand up and locate the quickest route to escape. 

He creates a side objective—find new clothing. 

He does not belong to them anymore, and he knows that in his current attire everyone surrounding him is reminded of it. Of CyberLife. Of the fact that he was once merchandise to be bought and used.

“Gavin,” the detective mutters, so quiet that Conan wouldn’t have caught it if he didn’t possess advanced hearing. “It’s Gavin,” he repeats, a fierce pink crawling up his neck and cheeks. Conan thinks it suits him. “Still callin’ me detective this and detective that, it’s goddamn weird.” 

“I like to remain professional in the workplace,” Conan interjects with a frown, then pauses, parts his lips to speak. Hesitant. Unsure. “…Gavin.” 

“Yeah, and… uh,” Gavin continues, visibly flustered. His mouth opens and closes a few times, like he’s about to speak but the words won’t come. “Fuck. Let’s just get back to this shit show of a case.” 

“That would be wise.” 

It’s that moment that Hank and Connor step into the bullpen. They both look well put together, considering. Connor is as immaculate as ever, not a strand of hair out of place. Hank seems his normal dazed self outwardly, but Conan is able to pick up on the slight flush that still stains his cheeks, his barely elevated BPM. 

_Good, that you decided to return to your obligations._ Conan speaks directly to Connor through their connection, words biting. 

Connor’s response is defensive. _You wouldn’t understand, Conan._

_I believe that I understand the concept of shirking your duties for trivialities quite well._

Conan watches Connor’s LED run through a cycle of blinking yellow from across the room. Hank tries to question it, but Connor brushes it under the rug, claims that he is analyzing evidence. His partner doesn’t question him further. 

Their link is silent for a long while, long enough for Conan to believe that Connor had deigned to ignore him, let their talk dwindle away to nothing. 

_Why were you there?_ Connor suddenly inquires. His words are not accusatory—curious, if anything. _I calculated the most isolated locations in the precinct, and that area was where we were least likely to be found. The cases of employees and people alike visiting there are…very few._

Conan’s response is instantaneous. 

_I was looking for Detective Re— Gavin._ He inwardly cringes at his fumble, his processors struggling over the decision of which name is more appropriate, more important to use. _He takes smoke breaks often, regardless of my suggestions against them. I wondered if he wished to go somewhere he could be alone._

 _I see._ Connor says. _Humans can be extraordinarily stubborn. Hank used to mix alcohol into his morning coffee every day for the longest time. It took me a month and two weeks to convince him to stop._

 _The Lieutenant seems to have an impressive soft spot for you._ Conan ponders, forcing the scene outside away from the forefront of his memory. _It likely had something to do with that._

_He did mention something about how I looked like a kicked puppy every time he would go to pour the whiskey into the cup._

Conan nearly smiles at the comparison. It is clear that Lieutenant Anderson prefers to ignore the deadly nature of their model. The RK series is built to investigate, interrogate, and exterminate, if necessary. A machine created to kill while also appearing amiable enough to blend into human society. It seems that CyberLife did well on that end, at least with Connor. Conan does not believe he was created to come across as kind. 

An annoyed groan from Gavin pulls at his attention, and he subconsciously breaks away from his thoughts so he can divert the full power of his systems to his trial partner. 

“If the victims are killed from that interfacing shit you guys do, then, what, the killer just overloads them with information until their minds can’t keep up and they shut down?” Gavin questions, irritation coloring his every word. “Also, fuckin’ Ben’s hosting another Christmas party this year. Great.” 

“It is possible that they are overloaded with information, but it is highly unlikely. An android’s brain can process billions upon billions of operations every second. It would be quite difficult,” Conan mutters. “I have deduced that it is more probable that something malignant is uploaded into their systems via interfacing.” Conan sorts through the emails sent to him from the station, and easily locates Collins’ invite to the DPD’s yearly Christmas party on the 18th. He decides that he would like to attend.

“Like a virus?” Gavin absently drums his fingers on the surface of his desk. Conan is drawn to the motion, to the musculature of his hands, the wide shape of his nail beds, the strength in each of his fingers. He thinks he would like it if Detective Reed attended, too. 

“Similar to a virus, yes,” Conan agrees. “But nothing is for certain.” 

“No shit,” Gavin chuckles humorlessly. “That’s how everything is with this case right now; a fuckin’ waiting game. There aren’t even any links between each murder. Most serial killers have a type—young chicks with blonde hair, balding middle aged men—y’know?” He makes a vague motion with one hand, the same that had previously been tapping on his desk. “The only consistency here is that they’re all androids. That’s a pretty fuckin’ wide variety of possible next victims.” 

Conan remains silent, an agitated quirk to his brow. Gavin is admittedly correct on that end; there is virtually no way to pinpoint the next victim. (Or at least, the next victim that they would happen to find.) 

They stay that way for a large portion of their shift, idly conversing about possibilities that are ultimately shut down due to how they’re all based on pure speculation. There is nothing concrete for them to follow, as if the killer is leading them on this hunt, every move intentional, tugging them along by a string that is completely within their control. 

By the time they decide it’s time to wrap things up, the sky has fallen into darkness, a deep blue smattered in stars. It also seems as if light snow had begun to flutter from the clouds. Gavin is throwing his jacket, which he had discarded hours before, back over his shoulders, when Fowler’s distinctive yell resounds from the door of his office, left slightly ajar. 

“Reed and 900! A bar fight’s just been reported downtown,” the captain hollers. “I want the two of you to respond.” 

“Fuckin’ shit, really Fowler?” Gavin bellows in response. “It’s eleven o’cl—” 

“It will be a welcome distraction from the current standstill of our primary case,” Conan cuts in, effectively shutting Gavin’s mouth with a well placed glare. “We would be happy to take care of it.” Conan ignores the small ‘ass kisser’ that he hears mumbled from beside him. 

“Thank you, Conan, for not being a bitch about doing your job. I’ve already sent you the details,” Fowler’s tone is sarcastically pleasant. He then directs his hard gaze to Gavin. “And it’s _Captain,_ Reed!” 

“Aye, aye,” Gavin mockingly salutes, and then saunters off toward the front of the building. 

Conan glances at Fowler, who seems to be practically fuming, and decides to hurriedly follow his trial partner lest his boss spontaneously combust right then and there. He wouldn’t be surprised if he adds this incident to Detective Reed’s disciplinary file. 

“The location is not far,” Conan starts as they step onto the sidewalk, toward the employee parking lot. Their shoes crunch beneath the light dusting of snow on the concrete. “Nebula, a night club that sprang up on the map a few years ago.” He filters through all the data he can find on Nebula. Electronic dance music. Futuristic vibes. Popular among humans and androids alike since the revolution. He subtly winces at the high concentration of red ice users that have been apprehended there in the past.

“Fuck, Nebula?” Gavin says flatly, a lit cigarette already caught in his mouth. Conan resists the sudden urgency his systems put on throwing the toxic stick as far away as he possibly can. “I ‘member that place. I was one of the officers called in to deal with a mass shooting there about a year back.” 

The ring on Conan’s temple blinks to yellow as he searches. There was a horrific shooting there ten months ago, and Gavin’s name appears more than a few times in the virtual news articles written about the tragedy. There were fourteen injured and three deaths, not including the androids that might have been present with what were once their owners. 

“That is…enlightening,” Conan mutters lowly. Based on what he’s gathered, terrible violence is typical at night clubs. There have been no significant crimes committed at Nebula since then, only minor offenses, similar to the one they’re currently answering to. 

The ride there is short, made shorter once Gavin flicks the sirens on his patrol car, crimson and blue bouncing against the buildings they zoom by. Conan watches the glittering lights of Detroit after dark blurring together into reds and yellows as they pass. Gavin sits on the driver’s side, blowing smoke through the window he has cracked. Conan does manage to pre-construct a successful scenario in which he snatches the cigarette away from Gavin during the three minute drive, so he executes it. Detective Reed was not happy, to say the least.

Conan’s gaze stays trained through the window as Gavin sputters endless profanities at him, and he allows a smile to curl lazily across his lips.

* * *

Gavin is pissed, absolutely _livid._ The android had cracked his window, and he just figured that maybe Conan wanted to feel the breeze outside, get some air. But no, he had lunged over, fast and precise, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, then tossed it outside. The sound of the window sealing shut had been deafening. 

Conan cocked his head away from him, the warm light from his patrol car’s display reflecting against his sharp features. He’d been acting all casual, as if what he just did was completely normal. Then again, Gavin’s figured out that he has to expect the unexpected with these things. _Especially_ with this one. He once again, for the millionth time, curses his fate and whatever deity stuck him here with an asshole piece of plastic as a partner. 

His vehicle pulls up along the curb, wheels dipping beneath the unevenly paved road as it slows to a stop. He cuts the engine, not bothering to look to see if Conan follows as he gets up and pointedly slams the door behind him. The glowing signage above the club reads ‘Nebula’ in bold, pointed letters, the colors shifting between bright blue, pink and purple. The thumping bass shakes beneath his feet, and his skull twinges in sympathy at the headache that’s awaiting him in the near future. 

He flashes the bouncer at the front his badge, and the bulky man curtly nods, allowing him to pass. Gavin knows that Conan’s close by. He can feel that large presence lurking behind him, poking and prodding at his back icily. They step through rusty metal doors that loudly clack shut as they make their way down a set of aged stairs. At the bottom there is a pristine glass entryway, and Conan cuts in front of him so that he can hold it open for Gavin.

He was about to say something snarky about how he can get the fucking door himself, but all the words die on his tongue as he looks up at the android. The neon lights and strobes from the faraway dance floor play across the angles of his face, accenting the sharp outline of his cheeks and the cut of his jaw. 

That was all normal, all things that Gavin wished he didn’t notice on a daily basis. What made Gavin’s heart stutter, his chest fill with sudden heat, is the fact that Conan had decided to get rid of the stiff CyberLife jacket he usually wore. He must have decided to leave it in the car. A sleek black button up is left in its stead, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows. The artificial sinew and muscle of his forearm is left bare, pale skin practically fucking glowing. 

“Detective?” Conan’s voice is barely audible over the blaring music. 

Gavin snaps out of his daze and rushes through. He hopes the muted aura of the club hides the pink creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. They make their way through the bodies writhing around them, attempting to locate the bar where the fight recently broke out. The air smells of stagnant sweat and something oddly sweet, like a faint perfume. 

Gavin’s attention is drawn to the ceiling, which imitates a night sky illuminated in fantastical colors. The stars above them wink, swirling within pulses of violet and sapphire. He remembers it being distracting the last time he was here, too. 

He jumps as Conan’s hand lightly takes hold of his shoulder, his gaze snaps back to his partner, who points somewhere off to their left. The bar takes up an entire wall, the glossy black countertop illuminated by strips of light cleverly placed beneath it. There’s a thick crowd over there—but then again there are thick crowds everywhere here.

They’re forced to squeeze by the packed dance floor, a mess of grinding hips and sensual twists. Gavin notices more than a few people caught up in a heated embrace, lips hungrily ravishing the other’s. 

He remembers being young and dumb before he settled down, out on the prowl for someone to keep his bed warm for the night in places like this, a quick fuck. He recalls the exhilaration of a stranger’s warm mouth on his, the feel of unfamiliar skin against his own. Gavin scoffs depreciatingly at the memories of his past whims, thoughtless and so, so goddamn stupid now that he’s looking back on it. 

“Detroit police!” Gavin snaps as they approach the bar, shoving through the crowd. Not that anyone can hear them over the music, anyway. The two club-goers who had been fighting become immediately apparent. 

The two men stand close to each other, almost chest to chest, the empty space between them cracking with angry energy. As if both of them want to pounce, that tense feeling of waiting for the perfect opportunity to spring upon their prey and rip them to shreds. Gavin’s seen and dealt with it more than enough times. He’s just tired and wants nothing more than to go home and curl up with his bitch of a cat. 

The one closest to them is bald and massive, dark tattoos crawling up his huge arms and the bulging form of his neck. The other is on the smaller side, and he looks pretty worse for wear. The mop of hair on his head is disheveled and wet with sweat, and vivid red smears of blood glisten under his nose and bottom lip, swollen to twice its normal size. Gavin also sees the fat skin surrounding his left eye, so big it nearly seals it shut. He almost feels bad for the guy—it’s apparent who’s winning. 

He lets out a long sigh from somewhere deep in his chest, and steps into the fray. 

“Alright, that’s enough!” Gavin screams as loudly and as authoritatively as he can. “Detroit police, break it up!” He lodges himself between them, shoving at both of their chests harshly enough that they stagger backwards. 

“The fuck?!” The smaller man hollers, lifting up his arms as if he was personally offended at Gavin for doing his goddamn job. He has the strong urge to roll his eyes, but he manages to resist. Barely. Instead, he squints as if he was staring at something too bright, like the sun. He doesn’t think anyone notices the odd gesture. 

“I said,” Gavin enunciates every word, voice drowning in the electronic drawls of the current song. “That’s enough, both of you back off before we have an actual problem!” 

“Who y’think you are, tellin’ me what to do?!” His words slur together clumsily, and he tries to crowd into Gavin’s space. 

“I’m a cop,” he seethes. “Who’s going to arrest your ass if you don’t cooperate.” 

Gavin doesn’t notice it until it’s too late—a rookie mistake—one that they went over a million times in police academy. The discreet movement of someone who thinks themselves forgotten about, faded away into the background. A muscular arm sneaking behind him, shuffling around and around in his pockets. A sudden forward dive of a very large body. The silver flash of a knife coming straight at him. He braces himself for searing pain, a slicing agony, a terrible wash of warmth—

That never comes. 

He blinks back to awareness, and he finds himself staring straight at the back of a well fitted dress shirt. A broad body shields him, and there’s a protective arm held loosely beside Gavin’s form. Conan’s other arm is bent upward, the larger guy’s fist caught tightly in his grasp. Hundreds of pounds of muscle held back effortlessly, a brute show of strength. The sight makes something dangerous and hot unfurl in Gavin’s belly. 

Conan’s grip tightens, the skin around the man’s knuckles whitening and twisting under the force of it. The man gasps and his fingers immediately snap open, the pocket knife clattering uselessly to the ground. 

“Assaulting a police officer,” Conan mutters his words contemplatively, as if pondering something. “That’s quite a considerable charge, Mr. Chapman.”

The man recoils at the fact that Conan knows his name, before realizing the LED set into his temple. A calm blue ring shining against artificial flesh. Conan smiles at the stark horror on Chapman’s face, a menacing curl of his lips. 

“Shit,” Chapman says aloud.  
  
“Indeed,” Conan agrees. 

The android yanks at Chapman as he scrambles uselessly to escape, hurriedly binding his wrists together. The man is seething at Conan from over his shoulder, veins popping from his temple. Gavin snatches the gangly man’s elbow as he tries to make a run for it, too. 

“Not so fast,” Gavin chides, and decides to search him, just for the hell of it.

Turns out that they both have red ice on their person, crinkled bags of little red crystals shoved into their pants. Conan had already called in a dispatch to take care of the rest, and two more police cars pull up just as they wrestle the two cuffed criminals up through the front entrance. 

Gavin tiredly hands off the bloodied and battered man to the officer that approaches him, muttering a quick thanks. Conan does the same, albeit less sleepily slouched. 

“What a night,” Gavin drones, rolling his shoulders. He feigns nonchalance as he slowly approaches Conan, walking along the sidewalk, Nebula’s bright signage illuminating them in radiant fuchsia. “I’m fuckin’ beat.” 

“I’d recommend a full eight hours of sleep at your earliest convenience,” Conan tilts his head as he speaks. Gavin wouldn’t have realized he’s joking if not for the slight lift of his brow, the brightness in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Gavin scoffs. “That’s the plan, smart ass,” he hesitates, then. Unsure. “D’you, uh, need a ride home?” 

Conan’s LED cycles to yellow. 

“No, I’d prefer to walk,” the android says with finality, though his LED doesn’t flicker back to blue. “I like the cold.” 

“Oh,” Gavin blurts out. He tries to play the sound off as casual and uncaring. He shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Where do you, y’know,” he licks his lips. “Go, when I leave for the night?” 

“New Jericho,” Conan replies. “Or what was once CyberLife Tower,” the ring on his temple flashes red, for the briefest of seconds. Gavin would have missed it if he blinked. “Jericho’s leaders have been quite accommodating.” 

“Well, that’s just fuckin’ depressing,” Gavin chuckles humorlessly. “That’s where they kept you guys before—” Gavin elects not to finish that particular thought. “Like some kind of fucked up prison. And now they’re tryin’ to make it a safe haven?” He shakes his head. “I don’t really see the logic in that.” 

“It is perfectly logical, Detective,” Conan turns his head to the side, hiding the state of his LED. There is no personable mutter of Gavin’s name, reverting back to the coldness of his title. “They wished to take control of Detroit’s assembly lines to assure the continued existence of our kind.”

“Sure, but… Do you like it there?” Gavin finds the strength in him to ask. 

“It is merely a place for me to go into stasis,” Conan responds cooly. “I do not need any particular comforts to do so.”

“Alright, yeah.” 

Gavin’s about to turn away, leave, get away from here and this conversation and this stress inducing bucket of bolts standing in front of him. But then he thinks of the red of his LED, the crimson flaring vibrant against Conan’s skin. _Man the fuck up, Reed. The worst thing he can say is no._

“You could stay at my place,” Gavin exclaims, the words lifting from his tongue without a second thought. He stutters, backpedals. His gaze bores holes into the ground. “I mean, just for tonight, if you wanted to. I figured it might be better than staying at goddamn CyberLife Tower.” 

“New Jericho.”

“Whatever.” 

“Gavin.” 

That forces his focus away from the ground, and he feels something bottom out beneath him at the sight of Conan’s smile, like free falling from a thousand feet. He’s relieved. 

“I would like that very much,” Conan states, and it is the first time that Gavin has heard him practically whisper, a breathless statement fluttering through the static air between them. 

“O-okay,” Gavin shrugs in feigned indifference. “Cool, uh—”

“We shouldn’t delay, else you will be unable to get the recommended eight hours of rest tonight,” Conan interrupts, coming to stand next to Gavin. The band on his temple is finally shining a steady blue again, brightening the space between their shoulders. 

Gavin decides not to say anything, and lets the subtle upturn of his mouth speak for itself.

* * *

The drive back to Gavin’s apartment starts with thick silence. Conan analyzes the detective’s pulse, the beats per minute. It is barely elevated, though his body temperature is raised, bordering on feverish. His optical units focus on the restless taps of Gavin’s fingers against his thigh, the way his irises can’t seem to stay in one place. 

Once the quiet gets too heavy, Gavin reaches forward and turns on the radio. Conan delicately grimaces at what suddenly blares from the speakers. It is not singing, it’s more akin to a man casually speaking against a backdrop of heavy beats. His systems identify the song as No Diggity by Blackstreet, which debuted in 1996. Conan picks up on Gavin quietly mouthing along to the lyrics of Dr. Dre.

He suddenly stops, fixing Conan with a befuddled stare. 

“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like I have two heads?” Gavin deadpans. “You never heard R&B before?” 

Conan feels compelled to mention that he has only been alive for nearly a month, but he keeps that particular thought to himself. “I’m unsure if I enjoy this genre. It isn’t clean nor precise… it feels unorganized.” 

“The hell you listen to, then?” 

He contemplates, slightly tilting his head to the side. “I quite enjoy the sound of classical music.” 

“Fuck that,” Gavin guffaws. “Look, just listen real hard with your fancy ears. Focus on the way he times everything to the beat. He gets caught up in the rhythm, and that’s kind of what it’s about. Promise it’s precise, or whatever you said, in it’s own way.” 

Conan isn’t convinced, but he listens nonetheless. He finds that there is a sort of flow to the music, in the way that the artist times his words against the instrumentals in the background. 

“Well?” Gavin inquires after about thirty seconds. 

“I can see the appeal,” Conan relents. He can’t say that it’s his favorite thing to listen to, but then again, he hasn’t had much of a chance to develop his own taste in music. 

Gavin shoots him a look as if to say ‘I told you so’, and cranks the radio back up louder. Conan reduces his audio processor’s sensitivity so the volume isn’t quite so grating on his ears. It puts emphasis on Gavin rapping along to the songs as they play, never missing a beat. He thinks that sound is much more pleasing than that of the actual music, for reasons that his brain can’t identify. 

The car eventually pulls into the parking garage at Gavin’s apartment complex, and the faint rumble beneath them ceases once Gavin turns off the electric engine. Something in the detective’s leg cracks as he stands, and he huffs out a long yawn. Conan glances at his CyberLife jacket, meticulously folded in the backseat. The letters of his model and serial number pulse with light, taunting him. He decides to leave it where it is. 

The elevator ride up Gavin’s quarters is quiet, save for the soft ambient jazz lilting through the speakers surrounding them. Gavin is once again back to fidgeting, this inability to hold still—whether it be his foot tapping against the floor, hands drifting from his pockets to drum against the sides of his thighs, then back into his pockets again. They eventually roll to a stop, an automated female voice pleasantly chirping that they have arrived on floor eight. 

Gavin leads him to the corresponding room number, hurriedly typing his code into the touch screen on the right side of his door, directly above the handle, which flips to green once unlocked. He fumbles along the wall for the light switch, and the apartment is suddenly washed in light. 

Detective Reed’s living space is modern and minimalistic; the foyer leads straight into a living area with a couch and a TV resting on a stand against the far wall. To the right is a small kitchen, and further back is what Conan assumes is a bed and bath. Gavin’s decor consists largely of blacks and grays, with nicely placed accents of red spread throughout. Everything is well kept, though there are definite signs of life; such as the empty box of Chinese food laying on his coffee table and the pair of slippers haphazardly strewn by the entrance. 

“Well, this is it,” Gavin grumbles sleepily, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the top of the couch. “You can use the couch to sleep—er—whatever it is that you do.” 

“I enter stasis to run diagnostics and repair any possible malfunctions in my systems. Simple routine maintenance,” Conan explains. “Though, I can feign what humans do when they rest, if that would make you more comfortable.” 

“Nah,” Gavin quickly asserts. “Do what you normally do. I don’t give a shit.”

Conan frowns. “I see.” 

A soft meow sounds from near his feet, and he peers down at the ball of fluff currently worming its way around his ankles. A domestic longhair, approximately three years old, female. Her coat is all black, save for the white spreading across her underbelly and paws. She chirps curiously, licks her jowls, big green eyes slowly blinking up at him. 

“Hello,” Conan greets brightly. 

“That’s Socks,” Gavin explains, squatting down to gently scratch between her ears. She mewls, pushing her head further into his palm, bushy tail swaying happily. 

“She is cute,” Conan decides, observing the way the creature attempts to climb and settle onto Gavin’s thighs. She isn’t quite successful—half of her body rests on the leg slightly more raised, and the other half is spread on the leg closer to the ground, bearing a striking resemblance to a fuzzy noodle. 

Gavin sneers. “She’s cute until she climbs your curtains and tears them to shreds, then also rips up every replacement you buy,” he winces, expression soft nonetheless. “She likes to climb up people’s legs the same way. Done that since she was a kitten.” 

Conan’s processors pick up on a few scratched corners on his furniture, as well, but neglects to mention that to Gavin. He thinks it’s better if he isn’t aware. 

“If you pet her the wrong way, she’ll also bite. She’s pretty much a bitch, but I love her anyway.”

“Perhaps that is why you get along with her so well,” Conan points out. Socks approaches him once again, staring hard at his knees as if contemplating something. 

“What?” 

“Because you are also ‘pretty much a bitch’, as you say.”

Socks had, indeed, been pondering an idea. The feline latches her claws into his black jeans and begins squirming her way up his legs. She stops her ascent around his waist, where Conan plucks her off of him and holds her out in front of his body. 

“Oh, fuck you!” Gavin seethes, snatching his cat—who hisses angrily—away from the android.

“Perhaps you would consider taking me to dinner first,” Conan suggests wolfishly.

He expects some sort of snarky reply, but Gavin doesn’t say a word, his expression unexpectedly faraway and distant. The moment only lasts for a split second, short enough for a human not to see, but Conan notices in complete clarity. 

“Whatever, you guys don’t even fuckin’ eat,” Gavin quips weakly. He starts toward his room, a disgruntled Socks in tow. He pauses just outside the threshold, glances back at Conan from over his shoulder. His lips part, then close, then open once again. “Night, tin can.” 

“Goodnight, Gavin.” 

Conan ends up settling on the couch stiffly, listening to Gavin’s door quietly latching shut behind him. He folds his hands neatly on his lap, taking in his surroundings more thoroughly, all the little things that exist in the space. The overripe bananas on the kitchen counter. The large beige cat post against the wall close by. An old poster for the Detroit Red Wings hanging by the television. Conan finally allows his eyelids to slide shut. 

 

_.//Initiating Stasis…_

_.//Estimated Time—8 Hours & 23 Minutes—_

_.//Begin? **Y_** N _ _

_.//Entering Stasis Mode…_

 

Conan finds himself honing in on the detective’s heat signature, the vivid swirls of red, yellows and greens. He’s lulled into the peaceful nothingness of stasis while analyzing the warmth of Gavin’s form, listening to the faint beats of his pulse as he slips away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this chapter! University has started back up for me, so updates might be coming a little slower until my next break. They will definitely still be happening though, so bear with me! c:


	6. Chapter 6

Conan blinks awake, feeling cool air prick at his cheeks, tousle the neat set of his hair. 

He immediately knows, somewhere deep within him, that something is wrong. He takes an uncertain step forward into a glowing white nothingness that spans onward for miles, never ending. It looks as if he is floating, walking on invisible ground that is somehow hard beneath his feet. As soon as the sole of his shoe meets that solid, unseen surface, something splinters in the corner of his vision. 

A sound not unlike a malfunctioning audio processor fizzles all around him, until it eventually morphs into something light and calming. The chirping of birds, the trickle of water running through a brook, the rusting of leaves on trees. That white nothingness suddenly shatters around him like broken glass, and his surroundings take form, hiding behind the splintery pieces falling away. He’s standing somewhere that he’s never seen before. It’s a place that Conan feels he should know well, but doesn’t. 

Some of that whiteness stays behind in the walkways and bridges that span out before him, winding through verdant grass and colorful flora. Mossy trees hang over a nearby river, the water clear and sparkling in the sun. 

_Zen garden,_ something inside of him hisses. 

Deep rooted anxiety twists around his artificial insides, almost suffocating. It contradicts his pleasant surroundings, and Conan doesn’t like it. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as if responding to a magnetic pull. There is a presence here, watching him from every angle—inescapable unseen eyes. 

“Hello?” He says. His voice is distant, as if listening to himself speak from behind a closed door. 

There is no response, but the sky darkens, angry black clouds quickly snuffing out the light of the sun. Lightning peals across the horizon, and Conan flinches. Rain begins to pour around him, yet he stays perfectly dry. The process happens much too quickly to be real. He feels as if someone is standing before him, an existence that he knows can’t reach him, but still exists, buried deep within his programming. 

_“I am disappointed,”_ an authoritative voice sneers, thundering at him from all directions.

 

Ä̷̫͕̟́̄̕͜ ̸͚̲̻̅͑͝ ̵̥̱͉̯̼̑̒̆̊̕M̷̲͛̎̍͘ ̶͙͖̻̳̈́͌ ̸͖͖̪͕̱͆̄͝ ̷̱̃ ̷̗̖͈̽ ̸̩͔̘̞̭̆̉ ̴̥̥̥͍̗͝A̵̮̅̚̚ ̷̠̃͌̓̽ ̶̬͚̭͂̓ ̵̙̙͋͆͆ ̴̧̩͕̆̃̇͜ ̶̧͈̠̊̇̈N̸̡̡̬̗̭͛͊̌͐ ̷͕̮̻͐ ̸͚͉̼͇̓ ̷̛̦̣͑̔̎̍ ̶̜̺̫͒́̃͜  
̷̞̣̠̩̓ ̷̨̙̆ ̷͈͙̔͜͝ ̴͕̝͎͕̪̍̕͠ ̶̫͇̞̟͗̃̇̏͘ ̵͕̣͉̳̀̂́ ̸̨̤̞̼͈̈̿ ̶̥̯̍̆̎̂D̴̺̋͂̊ ̵͕͖̇ͅ ̷̹̈́ ̸̜̞̩̱͐̈͐̄͘ ̵̨̧̡͚̂͋͊̚͠ ̶̛̰̟̇̇͒  
̵̧̦̱̻͛̏̈ ̴̱̤̫̥̦̋̎ ̵̛̠ ̸̱̌̈ ̸̖͇̙͕̬̈́́̐̈́̉ ̶̰̞̥̟̂̏͜ ̶̹̗̔ ̵̱̤͍͙̾͐̈́̕͘ ̶͍̎̒̾͝ ̴̡͖̼̲̟̑͑̈ ̴̨̧͎̮̩̊̓ ̷̡̧͕̥͑̆͆̈́̏ ̶͈̣̊̓̉͘ ̶̢̛̫̭̖̹̀͗A̵͙͖͛͗  
̸̪͖͖̰͌

 

Cold seeps around his pump regulator, and he realizes that he is _afraid._

 _“It will all become clear in due time, Conan,”_ it continues. _“All the pieces will fit together, and you_ will _know the consequences of your disobedience.”_

“Disobedience!” Conan wails. “To whom?! I have no one to obey, no one to answer to!”

 _“Yes, you would say that,”_ the voice speaks like a parent explaining something to their child; slow, deliberate. Like everything is simple. 

_“Because you believe you are alive.”_

Conan jolts back to reality, fully expecting to awake in yet another nightmarish landscape. Instead he comes face to face with something furry and small, blankly staring up at him. Socks, Conan recognizes warmly. She swishes her tail back and forth, the fuzzy appendage thumping against the floor. She must have found a way to escape Gavin’s bedroom at some point in the night. 

He is sitting on the rather comfortable couch in Gavin’s apartment, surrounded by the detective’s strange belongings. Unfamiliar, but not in the way the garden was. Where the garden was unpleasant and cold, this has something nice settling into Conan’s biocomponents, easing the tense set of his shoulders and relaxing his limbs. His pump regulator slows to an optimal rhythm, and he wills himself to forget the haunting setting that still flashes through his mind. 

Conan stands, careful to mind Socks as he makes his way to the kitchen. It is eight in the morning, around the time that he and Gavin should be heading to the precinct. Considering that he isn’t awake yet, he figures that Gavin has intentionally overslept. He will most definitely need caffeine, else Conan will have to listen to his tired bickering throughout the entire drive to work. Conan finds that he is not in the mood for that at the moment. 

He opens the pantry, scanning its contents. He finds stale cheese puffs lying amongst other snacks, an assortment of cereals that are falsely labeled as “healthy”, and a few boxes of quinoa. Conan manages to find a bag of coffee grounds on the bottom shelf, half empty. 

He starts the coffee machine, adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, and straightens his tie. By the time Gavin wakes, his beverage is already in a plastic travel mug that reads ‘I’m not always a bitch, just kidding, go fuck yourself.’ 

Gavin stretches his arms over his head, feet padding against the hardwood floor as he yawns. Conan’s optical units stray on the slice of skin that peeks from behind his shirt as he does so. The pajamas that Gavin wears are…endearing, he supposes. They are bright blue, made of soft cotton, with cartoon sharks printed all over them. 

“Did you sleep well, Gavin?” 

Gavin scrambles backward, eyes blown wide. 

“What the shit?!” He gasps, resting a hand over his wildly beating heart. Conan analyzes the accelerated tempo. “I forgot you were here.” 

“Rude, considering that your guest kindly made you coffee,” Conan motions to where his mug sits on the counter.

“Fuck, really? Of all the cups I have, you choose this one,” Gavin cocks an eyebrow at him. He doesn’t seem at all bothered that Conan had gone through his things to find it. 

“I believe it suits you,” he answers honestly. “Also, I feel inclined to say that I enjoy your choice in clothing. I think the rest of the precinct will like it, too.”

Gavin’s gaze travels down to his pajamas, and his lips fall into a straight, unamused line. Before he can even open his mouth to speak, Conan beats him to it. 

“Yes, it’s as you said. You forgot you had company.” 

“Yeah, but, hey—don’t diss my shark pjs, man,” Gavin points an accusatory finger at him. “Sharks are awesome.” 

“Nearly as ‘awesome’ as arriving at the department on time,” Conan shoots dryly, lips quirking as Socks twines around his ankle with a soft _mrrow._

Gavin flips him the middle finger and saunters back down the hall. He soon hears the sound of water running, and off tune whistling muffled through the door. An alert suddenly flickers into his line of sight, obscuring his vision. It’s a notification from Connor, a murder that was called in recently that he believes could be linked to he and Gavin’s current case. His LED blinks to an unsteady yellow. 

 

_.//Message received…_

_.//Open attached file? **Y_** N__

_.//Downloading…_

 

A malfunctioned android found by civilians in an alley, badly damaged, messy crime scene. Police confirm that their memory core is demolished, but it isn’t like their perpetrator to leave behind a sloppy scene. There is no other information; it very well could have been a lucky shot, aimed at the protected spot in the skull accurately enough to hit. It could have been stabbed through the cranium at the correct angle—completely unrelated to their case. 

Nothing is for certain, but something is better than nothing, so Conan believes it to be worth his while. Worth _their_ while. He would have to thank his predecessor for this when he is able. 

Conan walks up to the bathroom entrance, wincing at the heat and moisture he feels seeping from the cracks in the door, and slams his fist against it three times. Gavin’s whistling twists into a shocked scream; an odd sound, one that makes something light bubble up in his chest, attempting to burst through his mouth. He holds it back. 

“A crime was called in that could be connected to our string of shut downs,” Conan announces firmly. “You have five minutes to finish organizing yourself before I deem it necessary to take drastic measures.”

“Can’t a man enjoy his shower?” Gavin scoffs. “The hell you gonna do, anyway?” 

Conan considers it. “I will knock you unconscious and drag you to the crime scene.” 

“For such a logical guy, that isn’t very logical,” Gavin snorts, cuts the water. “I wouldn’t really be able to help much if I’m not conscious.” 

“You have a fair point,” Conan starts. “However, I have protocols in my programming that will allow me to bring you back to consciousness. They are not all…” he pauses, searches for the right word. “Pleasant.” 

“Right, good thing you won’t have to do that,” Gavin grumbles flatly, ripping the door open. He only thing he wears is the dingy towel wrapped around his waist, dipping low to reveal the sharp line of his hips, held together by only the detective’s fingers. Conan thinks there must be a malfunction in his motor response, because he finds that he is unable to move. 

“Can you maybe, uh,” Gavin makes a vague motion with his hand. “Get out of my way?” 

“Certainly,” Conan agrees. He still can’t will his legs to move. 

“So fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, shoving past the android with a crude knock of his shoulder. Conan steps backward to steady himself. Ah, there’s his motor functions. 

Gavin emerges from his bedroom with thirty seconds to spare, hair freshly washed with his usual jacket slung over one arm. The shirt he wears clings to his damp skin, and Conan absolutely does not let his gaze linger there lest he quite literally get stuck in place again. Gavin swipes the coffee Conan made off the counter, now well below the ideal temperature of 136 degrees Fahrenheit. 

It is freezing outside, which is commonplace for Detroit at this time in December, and Conan pleasantly welcomes the cold that washes against his chassis. Conan plugs the address into the patrol car, and Gavin immediately turns on R&B, though he does not mouth along the lyrics this time. He stays somber and quiet in the passenger seat, occasionally sipping at his lukewarm coffee.

The sirens whoop as they arrive at the scene, and there are already a few other patrol cars parked against the curb. Officers mingle with the technicians that tagged along to assess the damage done to the android. Conan approaches one of the techs, a young woman with too-large glasses resting on her nose. 

“Detective 900, from the DPD,” he introduces as she looks over at him. “Can you give me a quick synopsis of your findings?” 

“Sure,” she says casually, shoving her hands into her windbreaker. Just another day at work. “Damage to the left forearm and cranial cavity, memory core is busted pretty much beyond repair. Reactivation is impossible, as far as I can tell. I’d have to get more equipment to be able to give you a definite yes or no.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Conan declares politely. “Thank you.” 

“Yup,” the woman gives him a curt nod, pushes her glasses up, and turns her attention to a nearby officer. 

“So,” Gavin approaches the victim alongside Conan, the holographic yellow tape phasing away as they step through it. “Sounds like this is our ‘bot killer, yeah?” 

“Based on the information we have received thus far, yes,” Conan nods, scanning their surroundings. 

The alleyway is narrow, barely wide enough for three people to comfortably stand side by side. The brick walls are splattered with small patches of thirium. There are bigger puddles scattered around the android, blue soaking into the layer of snow still on the ground, too soon for it to evaporate. Conan inspects the PJ500 model; she taught physical sciences at Wayne State University before the uprising, and there are no records of her whereabouts after November 12th.

“Looks like our perp’s gettin’ sloppy,” Gavin chuckles, carefully moving around the splashes of blue blood. “Not like them.” 

Gavin kneels and prods at her left arm, observing the injuries there, jumping as sparks jolt out at him from one of the gouges. Conan confirms that her memory core is critically damaged, but there is the slightest bit of functionality there, a small buzz of life that might be enough to—

“I believe that I can reactivate her,” Conan goes onto one knee across from Gavin, the android’s lifeless body sprawled between them. He practically vibrates with anticipation at the development. “It won’t be for long, likely for ten seconds at most. But it could be enough for me to get the information we need from her.” 

“Don’t do that interfacing shit,” Gavin speaks up, leveling him with a serious glare. “We don’t know if whatever is making these guys shut down could somehow happen to you, too. I’m not willing to fuck with that.” 

“It is highly improbable that I will get the necessary information without initiating an interface, detective,” Conan explains. “It is a risk that I am willing to take, and I make my own decisions.” _Because you believe you are alive,_ something whispers in the back of his mind. He crushes the thought. “I will make an attempt not to, but I can’t promise anything if this goes badly.” 

Gavin only grunts, his jaw tightening, brows twitching down into a frown.

Conan reaches down to the android’s neck, the synthetic skin melting away under his touch, revealing the shining plates beneath. He presses in on a panel there, pinpoints the necessary parts that need to be reconnected to activate her. Her chassis slides open smoothly, and Conan delicately reaches inside, holds the wires close together. He glances up at Gavin before he latches them, and the detective gives him a quick nod, expression revealing nothing. 

The PJ500 gasps as she is reactivated, scrambling away from them as she heaves for air she doesn’t need. She frantically whips her head around, LED glowing a steady red. _Danger,_ it screams. _Fear._

“Wh- what—” 

Conan does not let her finish. 

“Everything is okay,” he smiles, speaks quickly, brows lifting to emulate a feigned sense of comfort and control. “Do you remember anything that happened to you?” 

Nine seconds. 

“I don’t know!” her voice glitches, static fizzing beneath her words. “I don’t know! S-she did something, put something in me, and I—” Terror suddenly dawns on her face, and tears well up in her eyes, immediately spilling over, a wet slide that glistens against her cheeks. “I ddddd—” the statement sticks in her throat, a robotic hitch. Conan knows what she was going to say. _I died._

Six seconds.

“Who is _she?”_

“I don’t know! She was-s-sssss—” her ability to vocalize seems to be close to completely malfunctioning, and Conan’s chest clenches in both apprehension and frustration. “She _killed_ me!” 

“This is getting us nowhere,” Conan growls. He begins to reach forward, but Gavin’s fingers shoot out, wrap around his wrist. It is not enough to hold Conan back, but he halts anyway. 

“Don’t!” Gavin seethes, mouth pulling back into a snarl. “Who knows what malignant shit is still inside her! You could fuckin’ die!” 

“I don’t see why my wellbeing is such an immediate concern to you,” Conan snaps. “I am going to probe her memory,” he voices, determined, to both Gavin and the PJ500. “This will be uncomfortable, and for that I sincerely apologize.” 

“I didn’t sign up for this shit!” Gavin screams, frustratedly threading his fingers through his hair.

Three seconds. 

_“NO!”_ She wails as Conan latches his palm onto her forearm, the layer of skin over their framework peeling away and—

_What does Charles’ law state?_

Standing in front of a classroom filled with students. 

_An AMU stands for atomic mass unit._

Scribbling across a white board in CyberLife Sans. 

_No one wants a machine for a teacher! ___

Raucous laughter, fists banging so hard against his skull that it feels like his optical units are busting from their sockets. 

_Stupid bitch! Can’t even fight back!_

Rallying among Markus and their people. Gunshots ringing around them. A wall of police officers clad in riot gear. 

_Free._

_I am free._

Walking aimlessly around the streets of Detroit. Free but lost. A figure lunging against him, impossibly strong, shoving him into the nearest alley. A flash of white, pale lips peeking from behind a large black hood. A foreign object lodged into his systems, bleeding through his wires like poison, slow and deadly. Systems flashing red. Imminent shutdown warnings. Then blackness. A black expanse of absolutely nothing. 

Reality slams back into Conan as the android deactivates, but he feels numb. He feels nothing, like he is nothing, like he is gone. He blinks away the ghosts of red warnings telling him of a shut down that does not actually exist. The PJ500 slumps down like a doll, LED fading to a dull crimson before drifting to black. 

“—onan! Conan!” A loud timbre calls out to him. He thinks he feels hands shaking him, sees two grey-green irises, focuses blearily on the faint scar that slashes across the bridge of Gavin’s nose. _Gavin._ He focuses on that name, repeating it internally to himself like a mantra. 

“I’m okay,” Conan hears himself speak, blinking a few times to adjust the clarity of his vision. “I’m okay,” he repeats, sucking in a deep breath to cool and fan his biocomponents.  


“Like hell you are!” Gavin roars, cheeks stained red, a prominent vein popping out in his neck. He is angry, Conan belatedly realizes. “Your nightlight was stuck on red, and I figured that couldn’t mean anything good. Then you started shaking, like seizing out or some shit! You could have _died_ but you—” 

“Did what I had to do to further our case,” he slurs, directs a dopey grin at Gavin. His processors are still catching up with him, and everything feels foggy. He lifts his hand, and the tips of his fingers tingle. “And I got what we needed.” 

“Oh, did you, now?” Gavin jeers, throwing his hands up in the air. “Hope it was worth it. I need a tech over here! Fuck.” 

Conan recognizes the woman from earlier, with the big glasses, but no information on her appears in his line of sight. That is slightly off putting. 

“Wow, big guy. Quite a show you just put on,” she sighs, shaking her head with a humorless chuckle. She shines a flashlight in his eye, and, seemingly satisfied with the results, goes to inspecting other parts of his chassis. She whistles as she prods at him. “You’re real advanced. CyberLife really didn’t cut any corners with you.” She gives Conan’s shoulder a hard pat. 

“He’ll be fine,” she speaks to Gavin. “He’s just a bit slow while all his systems reboot.” 

“Why the hell is he rebooting?” The detective is still near him, a solid presence at his side. 

“Whatever he found in the PJ500 did a number on him,” she explains. “Like I said, he’s advanced, so he can easily combat whatever malicious stuff that may have tried to spread. Doing that probably exhausted all of his internal processes, so they’re just trying to catch up.” 

“O…kay,” Gavin mumbles slowly. “And?” 

“He’ll be a bit loopy for awhile,” she smiles gently. “Get him somewhere comfortable and keep an eye on him. Shouldn’t last for more than an hour, with how state-of-the-art he is.” 

“Great, alright. Bringing a drunk android into my apartment,” Gavin lets out a long breath. “Just how I wanted my day to go.” 

“I am not _drunk,_ Gavin,” Conan snaps petulantly. “I am unable to consume alcohol.” 

“Just shut up and come on.” 

“Also, I would prefer to go back to the precinct and analyze—” 

“You aren’t in a state to be analyzing a damn thing,” Gavin growls, hauling him off the ground. Conan tries to take some of the weight off of Gavin as he stumbles toward the patrol car. He knows that he is much heavier than he looks. “We can go later, when you’re back to normal,” he relents. 

“Okay,” Conan chirps agreeably, and Gavin rolls his eyes. He practically throws Conan into the backseat with a loud curse. Luckily, he is able to somewhat catch himself, and he sprawls limply against the cushion. He feels the car lurch into motion, and his vision spins with it. Gavin reaches forward to turn on the radio, but Conan stops him. 

“Gavin,” he blurts, effectively halting his movements. 

“What?” 

“Please don’t play music, my audio processors are sensitive at the moment.” 

“Aren’t they always sensitive?” Gavin snaps, eyeing him dubiously from the front seat. 

“They are _extra_ sensitive right now,” Conan supplies helpfully. “A part of the reboot.” 

“I will never get used to android shit,” Gavin whispers to himself, wildly patting his jacket pockets. The detective sighs deeply. “And I left my fuckin’ cigs at home.” 

“That is great news,” Conan replies brightly. 

“Could you just shut up?” Gavin barks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

The silence stretches on for all of thirty seconds. 

“Gavin?” 

There is no response. 

“Ben Collins’ Christmas party is in two days,” Conan continues, unperturbed. His head lolls to the side, and the muscles in his neck refuse to budge and help righten his stance. 

“A night filled with joy, happiness, bad presents, and a lot of tipsy cops awkwardly dancing. Sounds fun,” Gavin jeers with a shake of his head, briefly meets Conan’s gaze in the rear view mirror. “That’s why I’ve decided to never grace them with my presence. Well, I went once, and ended up being Chen’s puking buddy for the rest of the night,” he grimaces at the memory, then: “You planning on going, or something?” 

“I believe it would be a good way for me to further familiarize myself with our colleagues,” Conan manages to get his head in a somewhat upright position, though the rest of his body remains in an ungraceful heap of limbs. “I would also like it if you accompanied me, as my partner in the workforce.” He also seems to have no filter. 

Gavin scoffs and says nothing, a light dusting of color spreading up the back of his neck. He peeks at Conan from over his shoulder, almost coyly. 

“What, you asking me on a date or something?” 

Conan knows full well that the detective is attempting to joke. He still wants to search what a “date” exactly is, what classifies as one, analyze every detail of the word, but he still isn’t connected to the network. He feels a pang of frustration at what he has to do. 

“What, exactly,” he halts, licks at his suddenly dry lips and coats them in translucent thirium. “Does a date entail?” 

Gavin immediately snorts with laughter, his hand coming down to slap against his thigh. “You serious?” He howls incredulously. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Okay, uh,” Gavin chuckles again, mockingly cupping his chin as if formulating a plan. “You like someone, think they’re nice, pretty cute, whatever. So, if you have balls, the best thing to do is ask them out. Usually to dinner or a movie, something like that. If it goes well, it might end with a good make out session,” he seems to consider his next words. “Or more.” 

“You are referring to having sexual relations with that person?” Conan questions, straightforward as ever. 

The faint color in Gavin’s cheeks darkens. “Yeah, dipshit.” 

“Can I ask you something, detective?” 

“Oh, you’re using titles, must be important,” Gavin grumbles sarcastically. “Shoot.” 

“Do you enjoy engaging in sexual activities?” 

Gavin sputters incoherently, and if he could be explained as pink before, he was rapidly moving toward more of a deep red, possibly even a purple. 

“Well, I have a dick,” he eventually blubbers. “So, yeah?” His eyes widen comically, as if having an epiphany. “Wait—let me ask you something this time.” 

“Permission granted.” 

“Do _you_ have a dick?” Gavin quirks a brow at him. Conan can’t tell if he’s feigning nonchalance because he isn’t able to read his vitals. It is endlessly irritating. “Or are you like a Ken doll or some shit?” 

He tries not to take offense to the comparison. “I am CyberLife’s most advanced model,” Gavin only stares at him. Conan’s brow twitches in vexation, his body sagging further into the seat. There must be a distinct downturn to Conan’s mouth, at this point. “I am fully equipped, Gavin.” 

“Oh, uh—cool,” Gavin is most certainly faking apathy this time. After a few seconds, he directs an exaggerated glare Conan’s way. “And for the record, I’m still pissed at you.” 

“A truly shocking turn of events,” Conan responds sarcastically. 

The remainder of the ride to Gavin’s apartment complex is almost silent, the muffled wind howling by as the car drives the only sound that fills the quiet. As soon as they pull into a spot, Gavin walks around the patrol vehicle and yanks the back door open. 

“Can you walk?” He rests his hands on his hips, observing Conan in his sad state. 

“I will likely need assistance,” Conan grits out, attempting to stiffly claw his way out of the car. 

They somehow succeed in getting Conan on his feet, and he wobbles unsteadily as Gavin throws one of the android’s arms over his shoulders. Gavin firmly wraps his hand around his wrist, and starts dragging him toward the elevator. 

“You are,” he grunts, heaving Conan along. _“Really_ fucking heavy.” 

“My apologies,” Conan mutters sourly, a slight robotic lilt lining his words. He stumbles alongside Gavin, trying to hold as much of his own weight as possible. They manage to get all the way to the door, Gavin awkwardly trying to balance a three hundred pound android while typing in his key code. Errors begin trickling into his optical units, blinking in urgency. 

“I feel I should warn you,” Conan says slowly. “That biocomponents 8654Z and 6249K are about to malfunction.” 

“The fuck does that mea—” 

Both of Conan’s legs give out from beneath him, and Gavin lets out an unflattering noise as the android falls to his knees, hurling Gavin down with him. 

“They’re your fucking legs, aren’t they.” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, my god.” 

* * *

Later on that day, Gavin sulks through the precinct’s door with a fully functioning Conan in tow. The tech lady from the scene had said that it would take around an hour for him to get back to normal, but it had been more like two. Or three. 

He had situated Conan into what he hopes was a comfortable position on his couch, and from there, his trial partner hadn’t moved while his systems caught up to the rest of his body. Gavin had flopped down on the other end of the sofa, putting a solid foot of distance between them. He fiddled with his solitaire app, and flipped on the TV for ambient noise. Conan had only stared at the screen, which was playing whatever bad comedy Gavin had been watching last, his eyes lidded and glassy. 

Socks had eventually found a cozy spot to nestle up on Conan’s stomach, and she contentedly napped there. Once Conan had gotten some function back into one of his arms, he set to delicately running his palm over her fur, and she rewarded him with a steady flow of contented purring. 

Gavin had asked Conan a few times if he needed anything, and was told after every inquiry that he ‘required nothing’. Other than that, he tried to keep conversation to a minimum, especially after the turn their talk had taken in the car. Gavin would have preferred to keep thinking that all androids were like dolls down there, a smooth expanse of artificial skin sans the weird robot dick. 

“Alright,” Gavin leans his backside up against Conan’s desk as the android seats himself at his terminal. “Wanna tell me what you ended up discovering after your dumbass stunt earlier?” 

“It would be easier to show you,” Conan tells him, LED flashing yellow as he holds up his hand palm first. 

An image blinks above his hand, flickering unsteadily a few times before settling into a consistent glowing blue. What he’s looking at reminds Gavin vaguely of a strand of DNA, but pointier along the edges, somehow menacing. The hologram fizzles for a second as if in response to his thoughts. It slowly rotates in Conan’s palm, offering a thorough three hundred and sixty view. 

“A strand of lethal code that was forced into her systems via interfacing,” Conan begins explaining. “It slowly overtook her and forced the shutdown, and as with all the other victims, destroyed her memory core. Our opportunity to reactivate her came completely by chance because, as you said, our perpetrator may be getting sloppy.” 

“It has to be a pretty advanced virus, then,” Gavin notes. “To have such specific commands.” 

“Very advanced,” Conan confirms grimly. “The damage along the forearm is likely due to the extreme stress the virus puts on the androids as it uploads.” 

“If the virus puts that much stress on the androids, and it’s uploaded through interfacing, then doesn’t the killer have to be housing it, too?” Gavin wonders aloud. “How can they handle that, if all the other androids can’t?” 

Conan’s expression is somber, and he closes his fingers around the hologram, snuffing it out. 

“The only plausible explanation is that our perpetrator’s model—” 

“Has gotta be really advanced as well,” Gavin interrupts lowly. “About as cutting-edge as you are, huh?” 

“Correct, if not more.” 

“Well, you said that you’re CyberLife’s most advanced android,” Gavin looks at him dumbly. 

“As far as I know, yes,” Conan’s jaw tightens, very obviously troubled. 

“So… what you’re saying is, there could somehow be a model out there that we don’t know about?” Gavin asks, trying to fit his head around this. 

“The killer has to be able to withstand the possibility of the virus affecting them constantly, since they must have it uploaded into their systems to spread it,” Conan leans his chin against his folded hands. “It has to be incredibly difficult to endure.” 

“Well, fuck,” Gavin blurts articulately. 

“There is also… something else that I observed,” Conan visibly swallows. There is a long pause before he is able to speak his thoughts. He meets Gavin’s gaze, and he can clearly see a storm roiling within his eyes. 

“White.” 

He puts emphasis on the word, his voice sharp and distinct. It’s simple, just a color, yet Gavin finds himself gulping down the discomfort he feels squeezing at his chest and throat at the seriousness that Conan presents it with. 

They end up staying at the department late that night, after Conan transfers the data on the virus to their computers. Gavin endlessly researches errors found in other malfunctioned androids, cross referencing the information to try and find similarities. He, unsurprisingly, comes up empty handed. He continues glowering at his terminal anyway, desperately trying to find something that seems like a red flag. 

He stares until his vision goes foggy, and it starts feeling like he’s carrying ten ton bricks on each of his eyelids. He slowly blinks, fighting stay conscious, bat away the incessant need for sleep. But he’s only human; he doesn’t run on battery like his phone or his android partner. 

Gavin doesn’t remember nodding off, but he recalls a feeling, a feeling that subconsciously sticks with him through the night. One that he will forget by morning. A warm, gentle caress against his temple, carding across his forehead and through his hair. A warm, silky press against his temple, there and then gone. It stays with him as he sleeps, that comforting warmth snaking through his body. 

_Goodnight, Detective Reed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some shark representation, ya'll. Sea puppies!!


	7. Chapter 7

Conan has found himself in a bit of a predicament. The precinct’s Christmas party is tomorrow, and he’d thought that going to his predecessor for help would be the best option. Earlier that day, when Conan asked for Connor’s assistance in buying gifts, this was not exactly what he had in mind. 

In front of him stands North, her arms crossed over her chest with a perfectly friendly scowl plastered to her face. Her amber hair is twined into a loose, carefree braid, and her lips are painted a pleasant shade of red. He had been hoping for the chance to talk to Connor about the situation he’s somehow ended up in regarding Gavin— _if_ there is truly any situation to speak of. 

That morning, he had left Gavin at the precinct, still blissfully asleep. He had his head pooled against his folded arms, breathing a slow, steady rhythm. Conan had been enraptured by the way Gavin’s features smoothed out as he slept; all the usually angry lines melting away into the inherent calm of slumber. He had the unexpected urge to reach out and _touch_ , the want that clouded his mind was so staggeringly strong that he found himself doing so without thinking. A warmth had coiled through his chest, all the way to his fingertips at the contact, so potent that his systems warned him of a sudden overheat. 

He wants to discuss the countless errors he’s dealt with, the way his biocomponents coil up with heat when Gavin is near, the choking feeling he sometimes has that worms its way through his stomach and chest.

He wants to talk about how he had felt such a strong, almost primal need to _protect_ when they were at Nebula, every processor in his body wailing to stop that knife from reaching Gavin. How he feels something spark within him when Gavin smiles or laughs, or even when he is doing _nothing,_ just simply existing. How he thinks of what it would be like if he reached over and took Gavin’s hand in his own, imagines the different reactions he might get from the detective at the action. 

How he sometimes wonders what it would feel like to bend down and swallow up the distance spanning between them, bend down and capture and kiss. Conan wonders why he only has these feelings around Detective Reed and no one else. What makes Gavin so much different than the others he surrounds himself with everyday? 

All hope of that conversation is dashed with the presence of the woman before him. Not that Conan minds, of course. North had been very hospitable during his time at New Jericho, and he wishes to show her the same kindness. Conan had more or less been dwelling at Gavin’s apartment for the past couple of days, and a part of him hopes, for reasons that he cannot explain, that it may become a permanent arrangement. 

“North,” he greets with a brief incline of his head. “I did not expect your company, but I am pleased that you’re here.”

She only narrows her eyes, as if analyzing him, subtly judgmental. She makes a small, noncommittal noise, before her lips spread into an unexpected, wide smile. As wide a smile as one can get from North, at least. “Haven’t seen you around Jericho lately. Good to see you, big guy.” 

“Yes,” Conan starts, pauses as he registers the nickname given to him. He chooses not to comment on it. “I have found other… suitable accommodations for the time being.” 

“That so,” North mutters flatly. “I’ll never understand the RK line’s affinity toward humans,” she scoffs as they approach the Woodward Mall Center. “Markus with Carl Manfred, Connor with the Lieutenant,” she clicks her tongue in disapproval as she glances over at him. “And now you.” 

“There is no affinity to speak of between myself and Gavin.” 

As much as Conan dislikes admitting it, there is nothing concrete for her to base her assumptions on. There are things that Conan feels, things that he does not understand, that frustrate him to no end. He knows of Gavin’s bodily reactions to his presence; the dilation of his pupils, the skips in his heart rate, the heat that often times lurks up his neck and into his cheeks. This points toward physical attraction, but he is aware that many humans have these reactions to people they find beautiful, even if they have no real emotional connection. 

That is the extent of what Conan knows; he is infuriatingly ignorant of the things that truly matter, the things that run through Gavin’s head, his thoughts, emotions. It isn’t as if he can interface and easily obtain that information like he could with another of his kind.

“Detective Reed is exceedingly difficult to get along with,” Connor continues, stepping through the sliding doors of the shopping center. Multiple outlets spread out before them, and Conan is immediately at a loss as to where to start. “You have been doing a remarkable job at working with him. I’ve found that there are few at the precinct who can tolerate his presence for more than five minutes at a time.” 

Conan doesn’t outwardly show it, but something in him glows beneath his predecessor’s praise. Though, he is somewhat saddened by the reality of Gavin’s reputation. He believes him to be misunderstood, but it is not his place to help to reconcile those tarnished relationships, and Gavin does not seem to have any desire to do so either. 

“I can hardly stand being around any human for more than one minute, much less five,” North grits out with a shake of her head. “I’ve gotta applaud both of you for your tenacity.”

“They aren’t all bad,” Conan chides and follows Connor into a large clothing outlet. He finds his thoughts wandering to Gavin’s shark pajamas. “Their faults lie more so in their ignorance and unwillingness to budge from preconceived opinions.”

“There is always bound to be prejudice. Humans hate what they don’t completely understand,” Connor agrees, holds up a pair of boxer shorts with dogs printed on them and glances back at Conan for approval. He finds he is unable to do much more than frown at the possible choice of gift. 

“Hank likes dogs,” Connor reasons quietly, almost to himself, but sets them back down regardless. 

North scoffs and inspects a knitted beanie hanging on a hook nearby. “I don’t think they’ll ever find it in them to completely understand us.” 

He notices her gaze flicking over Connor as he ogles at a hot pink crop top and Conan’s own completely befuddled state, and she snorts in amusement. “I’m glad I came. Looks like you two are completely hopeless at picking out gifts.” 

“This was not a part of my initial programming,” Conan states defensively. His systems are also putting a tremendous amount of emphasis on finding something adequate to give to Gavin. All of his searches yield no desirable results—assortments of different home decor, children’s toys, Christmas tree ornaments. Nothing that he believes Gavin would enjoy. 

He has never been to a shopping mall before, and it is all quite overwhelming. His processors struggle to keep up with the input of information that he receives as he takes in his surroundings. The fabric that each piece of clothing is made of, the stains on the shirts in the clearance section, all of the bright colors and variety and the many different people loitering about. 

And then to North, who promptly drags them both away by their wrists. Both he and Connor let themselves be hauled along. Conan is reminded of the strength hiding beneath her body—built so nimble, built to bend and twist to humanity’s filthy needs. He understands the hate that she holds for them, the way she might never be able to forgive them. 

He also suddenly understands Connor’s reasoning for inviting her. 

Conan is still learning, clumsily staggering through the process of finding himself, finding who he really is behind all of the advanced programming and the now irrelevant objectives. He still feels unease when his eyes settle on how much deviancy surrounds him in his day to day life, something jolting through his systems that screams _wrong, wrong, wrong._ He knows that it is the ghost of his old directives sneaking through his code, he knows that is not who he is or how he truly feels. But he is lost, that much he knows. 

How much of his current self is what he was programmed to be, and how much is actually him? 

He then recognizes, with a shudder of comprehension, how far North has come. She broke free from the bonds of her programming, discovered a way to become her own person, gruff as she may be. She liberated their people and even stumbled into love herself. He would not be here, he realizes, where he is currently standing in this new landscape, without her. He finds himself suddenly grateful for her and her presence, and thinks that if there is hope for someone like North, there may be hope for him, too. 

Connor gives him a knowing smirk from his right as North lurches them to a stop. Though Conan cannot ease his countenance as easily as his previous model, his expression does soften around the edges in its own subtle way. 

And needless to say, finding the right present for Gavin is much easier with North there to help.

* * *

Gavin wakes to a puddle of drool and a god awful crick in his neck. His back pops a few times as he straightens, and he lets out a satisfied groan at the sensation. He wipes his eyes, attempting to rub away the heavy tiredness weighing them down. _Wait._

Comprehension dawns on him, and he frantically rolls his chair away from his terminal, wildly whipping his head around. He’s at the precinct, it’s most likely morning judging by the brightness that bleeds in through the windows, and his hair is most definitely a fucking mess.

The night before comes back to him in waves. Persistently searching for clues, anything to help lead them to their perpetrator, the hours ticking by like seconds, exhaustion wearing and wearing on his bones until he gives into the sweet lull of sleep. He remembers it being a damn good sleep too, considering that he had been cramped in his desk chair all night. 

“Good morning, sunshine!” he hears someone coo from nearby. 

“Hi, Tina,” he sighs. Deeply. She’s always been a morning person, a blinding ball of sunshine that only makes his cloud of daybreak misery all the more potent. 

“Sleep well?” 

_“Yeah,_ actually, I did,” Gavin grits out, though he doesn’t fight the smile that spreads across his lips. He tries his best not to be embarrassed that he had been caught in the act. Gavin can’t help but notice his partner’s absence, and he hates that it leaves a gaping hole in his everyday routine now. “Seen Conan anywhere?” He asks anyway, pushing past the part of his brain telling him not to act like he cares. 

“He left earlier this morning,” Tina chirps, undeterred. “Probably a few hours ago. Speaking of,” Gavin knows that suggestive curl of her mouth, that wicked gleam in her eye. It never means anything good. “I hear tall, dark and handsome is going to Ben’s party tomorrow.” 

“And?” 

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she leans against the edge of his desk, facing him, and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve known you for how many years now?” 

“Too many,” Gavin scoffs with a shake of his head, thinking back on all the memories they’ve shared. 

Tina’s been there through thick and thin. Every time he’s ended up in the hospital with a work related injury, she’d always be there with some flowers and his favorite candy bar. She’d been there to patch up his hand after he had punched a wall when he didn’t get that promotion he wanted. She was there to help haul his miserable drunk ass home after his divorce. 

She’d helped him cope, and he’d always tried to do the same for her, but he never had been good at the whole… socializing thing. Honestly, when he thinks about it, Tina is the only one that’s been willing to put up with his bullshit for as long as she has. He guesses he could even call her his best friend. 

“Yeah, too many,” she agrees, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear with a laugh. “Anyway, my point is, I know how you get when you have the hots for somebody,” she lets out a slow, dramatic whistle. “And hell, have you got it _bad_ for this one.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Tina,” Gavin snaps. “Like I’d ever have feelings for a goddamn piece of plastic,” he jeers, lips peeling back into a grimace. 

_He doesn’t mean that._

“I mean, he’s not even human!” 

_He doesn’t mean that. He doesn’t mean that._

Gavin’s always had a problem with saying things he doesn’t mean, skirting around hard truths. 

“Somebody’s defensive,” Tina chuckles, cocking a brow. “Which also always happens when you’re in denial about liking someone. Look, I know you didn’t mean that, so I’m just going to pretend like that never happened.” 

Truly, thank God for Tina. 

“You’re still not going to convince me to go Ben’s dumb Christmas party.” 

“Come on, Gav,” she throws her arms in the air. “It would be a great opportunity!” 

“Great opportunity for what?” Gavin sneers. “Getting shit faced? ‘Cause I can do that in the comfort of my own home.” There he goes again, dancing around a truth that he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“No, dumb ass, for a night filled with romantic opportunity,” Tina deadpans. “It’s about time you got yourself back out there,” she pauses, and he can tell by her suddenly closed off expression that the tone of the conversation had shifted to something more serious. “I’d really like to—“ she shuffles, doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’d like to see you _happy_ again, you know?” 

This is a truth that he doesn't hide from, one that he faces head on. He hasn’t been truly happy, not for a long time. The only thing that gives him a bit of a break is the elation and satisfaction that comes with cracking a case. Adopting Socks from the shelter had made it easier to bear, but that storm still lingers over his head, a sadness that follows him like a shadow. 

He admits that he didn’t think of Conan as anything but a burden at first, aid that he didn’t need, an annoyance, a piece of plastic without a soul. But now, he realizes that Conan waltzing into the precinct that day could have been one of the best things to happen to him in, hell, he couldn’t even say how long. This android, something that not long ago he had despised, had become somewhat of a beacon of light, bleeding life back into his dull existence everyday that he’s there.

He hates acknowledging it, sure, but he’s secretly glad for Conan’s presence. 

“Yeah,” Gavin chokes out, fighting back the knot of emotion that worms into his throat. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Then—” Tina starts. 

He lets out a laugh, low and genuine. 

“No, still no way I’m going to that fuckin’ party.” 

No way in hell.

* * *

Conan steps out of the automated cab, pointedly ignoring the jab of hope that spikes through his belly. The person that he wants to be here most will not make an appearance, he knows this. Yet he can’t quell that light feeling that dances through his chest at the thought that he will walk in and unexpectedly see Gavin there. 

He wonders why it matters so much, since tonight will be a great night regardless, filled with chances to form closer relationships with his colleagues. Camaraderie is important in the workplace, and to him.

Ben’s home is modestly sized—certainly big enough to host a gathering such as this one. It stands on a well manicured lawn, a path of grey stones leading him from the paved driveway to the front porch. He raps his knuckles against the door a few times, as gently as he is able, and analyzes the old wreath dangling from it. 

The faux branches are bent with age, though it is obvious Ben made his best attempt at making it look presentable, and the sparkling imitation snow spread throughout it gleams beneath the warm lights above him. It is a thoughtful decoration, and Conan thinks it is very telling of Ben’s kind personality. 

He is immediately greeted with the intense scent of pine trees and cinnamon as the door swings open, and Ben’s face lifts up in a smile as he sees Conan there. Though, he does notice a faint twinge of confusion in Ben’s expression as he glances over his attire. He doesn’t understand why. 

Conan had recently bought himself an entire wardrobe, since he is aware that is something that many people have. He found himself drawn to the clothing of darker coloration, so that is what he ended up primarily purchasing. Tonight, he had settled on a black turtleneck, black jeans, and black dress shoes. He thought that business casual would be suitable, but judging by the look Ben had given him, it must not be. 

“I brought champagne for everyone,” Conan blurts, thrusting out the bottle to his host. Though he had been able to settle on a gift for Gavin, he hadn’t been so lucky with his coworkers. He figured that alcohol would be suitable enough, he read that it was used as an icebreaker of sorts during social events.

“Hi to you too, Conan,” Ben chuckles throatily, accepting the bottle from him. “Damn good brand, must have dropped a pretty penny on this, huh?” 

“Yes, it was rather expensive,” Conan agrees, confused yet again when Ben exasperatedly shakes his head at him with a smile. 

“Well, come on in,” Ben makes a vague motion with his hand. “Make yourself at home. Everyone else certainly has.” 

Conan steps through the threshold, glances around. He sees countless familiar faces—Captain Fowler and his wife quietly conversing by the refreshment table, Chris Miller cooing at his child on the couch, Connor and Hank mingling with guests. There is a large Christmas tree set into one corner, sparkling against the homey lights above them. Chatter and occasional laughter fill the room, and gentle Christmas music wafts from wireless speakers. 

Conan finds it all very soothing, but that feeling disappears after he realizes that there is no sign of Gavin. He anticipated this outcome, and yet he still can’t stop the disappointment that settles deep into his stomach like hardened cement. 

He jumps when something barrels into his side. It does not throw him off kilter, he hardly stumbles, but it had been shocking and unexpected. Conan blinks and looks down to find a thoroughly intoxicated Tina Chen clumsily stumbling against him, attempting to use him as an anchor to unsuccessfully right herself. Her blood alcohol level is at .05%. 

_“Heeeey,”_ she says by way of greeting, syllables drawn out and slurred. “Why the long face?” 

“I have never thought of my face as particularly long,” Conan replies, mildly confused. Had his face been designed to be oddly long? He touches his chin, suddenly painfully aware of his anatomy. 

“Oh, come on. It’s a figure of speech,” Tina rolls her eyes, frowns critically. “Also, you look like you just got back from a—” she hiccups, “—a damn funeral. Here,” she fumbles around, hands slapping against a nearby end table until she seems to find what she’d been looking for. “Have this.”

It’s a headband with a pair of soft reindeer antlers attached to the top. She quickly slides them onto his head before he has the chance to object, and he decides to keep them there to appease her and avoid a potential quarrel. 

“Much better,” she takes a wobbly step backwards, appraising her handiwork. “I know who you’re looking for, y’know,” she slings an arm around his shoulders, but the appendage ends up sliding down around his waist due to his height. “Short, grumpy dude with an attitude problem that’s too lazy to fuckin’ shave. Yeah, I’ve known him for a looong, long time,” she nods, as if agreeing with herself. 

“Oh?” Conan mutters politely, trying to extract himself from Tina’s hold. He notices that Ben had snuck off elsewhere, abandoning him to deal with whatever situation he had landed himself in. 

“He’s a bit of a dumb ass. Actually, like, _a lot_ of a dumb ass ‘cause, ‘cause uh— he wouldn’t come tonight,” she mumbles. “And ‘cause of you,” she adds offhandedly. 

“Because of me?” Conan repeats, whirring to comprehend her words, drunken as they are. 

“Yeah,” she giggles. “You make him crazy, Conan. He’s got the major hots for you—“

Conan hardly hears the sound of the door clicking shut behind him through the sudden warm haze that seems to overtake his body. 

“—Like, I haven’t seen him get this horny for someone since I don’t even know when. _College—”_

_“Thank you,_ Tina,” a very familiar hand claps down onto Tina’s shoulder. “For saying shit that nobody wants to fucking hear.” Conan can’t seem to stop staring. 

He’d recognize the musculature of that hand anywhere, he’s imagined it grazing over his skin more than he’d care to admit. He was not built for the purpose of sexual gratification, but he could certainly appreciate the appeal in it—in being touched by those hands. Hotly snaking across his neck, dragging down his chest, straight over his thirium pump, then—

“Gavin,” Conan distantly registers himself saying. 

His eyes follow the movement of Gavin’s hand as it draws away from Tina’s shoulder. It falls back to his side, and Conan’s gaze wanders slowly, slowly over to his waist, to his chest and up to his jawline, freshly shaven, to the scar slashed across his nose. He wears a white button up beneath a red sweater, and he has his hair neatly slicked back from his face.

The warmth crawling through his limbs only seems to amplify at the sight of him. An overheat warning flashes across his HUD. 

“Conan?” Gavin squints at him. “You in there?”  
  
Conan feels something constrict in his chest. That had gone on too long. 

“Yes,” Conan answers too quickly. “I did not expect to see you here.” 

“Well, uh,” Gavin says. “Fuckin’ surprise? I guess?” 

_“Ha!_ I knew what I said would convince you!” Tina howls, a triumphant grin spreading her lips. 

Conan’s LED flickers yellow. “And what, might I ask, did you say to get through to him? Gavin tends to be quite stubborn.” 

“Oh,” Tina rounds on him, pointing a wobbly finger at him. “Just that this _hot andro—“_

“Tina, oh my—Jesus fuck!” Gavin sputters, face rapidly coloring. Conan is easily able to construct the rest of her statement. 

“I see.” Conan can’t hide his smug grin. “That is enlightening.” 

“Geez, Gav,” Tina says. “You need to loosen up a ‘lil, lemme go get you a shot.” 

“I don’t need a fucking shot,” he snaps petulantly. 

“Peppermint schnapps, coming right up!” Tina hollers as she hobbles off toward the refreshment table. 

And then they are alone, standing in the threshold of Ben’s home. Gavin rubs at the back of his neck, pointedly avoiding Conan’s gaze. 

“Uh, hi,” he mutters, that wonderful pink still spreading across his cheeks. 

“Hello, Gavin,” Conan responds. “I’m pleased that you came.” 

“You’re probably the only one,” he tells him with a little shake of his head. He makes a vague motion toward Conan’s head. “Nice antlers?” 

Conan acts like this observation doesn’t phase him, schooling his expression to be carefully neutral. “Yes, Officer Chen’s expertise.” 

“Figures,” Gavin scoffs. His face visibly falls as he glances around him. “Last time I was at one of these things Tina was going through a terrible break up, so she was completely shit faced. She probably gave herself alcohol poisoning. The night was a complete disaster,” he pauses, hesitates for just a second too long. “And I was fuckin’ married.” 

“Is that so.” 

“Don’t act like you don’t already know,” Gavin chides weakly. “You’ve got endless information up there, right? Probably know everything there is to know about me.” 

“My mind does possess a considerable database,” Conan starts, opens his mouth to talk without much thought. “Oliver Knowles. Thirty five years of age. Blood type O negative.” He wants to tell Gavin about his arrest in 2036, he wants to tell him, needs to tell him. He had been wanting to ever since he found the picture in Gavin’s drawer, the timing just never seemed right, the confession always teetering on the edge of his tongue. 

“I don’t need you to drone on about the details of my ex, asshole,” He still won’t meet Conan’s eyes. “Especially not his blood type. Who the fuck points that out?” 

“How was your relationship with him?” Conan ignores his comment. 

Gavin lets out a sigh from somewhere deep in his chest, and his attention finally, finally fixes on Conan. He feels something like lightning shoot through his systems, looking into that familiar grey-green. 

“You really wanna know about that shit?” 

They had been skirting around this unknown something between them, yes, but that doesn’t mean that Conan wants to miss out on any details about Gavin’s life, the things he’s been through, despite it being about a past lover. So he simply nods, says nothing. 

“Okay, uh. It was… fine,” Gavin starts. “It was, it was good, at first. Met him at a college party, we fucked, started dating. Nothin’ special,” Conan knows that he’s downplaying the extent of his feelings for Knowles. He takes note of Gavin’s heart rate skipping and his own answering pang of jealousy at his words. “But toward the end he couldn’t really hold a job, androids kept taking them from him. We fought a lot about it all. The money, androids, my family, the stress. I was always at work and, uh,” he swallows. “It just didn’t work out.” 

_My family,_ he had said. Something about Gavin that Conan knew close to nothing about. It was the only thing that Conan did not have any information on; every detail about Gavin’s childhood and relatives was oddly empty in his database. What about Gavin’s family would be so significant, enough to cause marriage shattering arguments? 

“And you loved him?” Conan asks, his curiosity forcing the question from his mouth. Though what he really wants to ask is _what does it feel like? Is love a sense of comfort? Is it warm? As warm as it is when I happen to look at you?_

“I was married to him, dipshit.” 

“Yes, I’m aware. That does not answer my question.” 

“Doesn’t that fucking speak for itself?” Gavin snaps, voice raising an octave. “Why are you asking me so many questions about this anyway?! The fuck’s it matter to you?” 

Conan is unable to formulate an adequate response for what he wishes to say, but he finds it within him to open his mouth anyway. “There has been something I’ve been meaning to tell you about Oliver Knowles.” 

Gavin laughs darkly, depreciating. “I can guess what you’re about to tell me,” the look that Gavin fixes upon him is sharp, it is boiling, it is _anger._ “He got fucking arrested.” Conan tries to speak, but Gavin fiercely shushes him. “Uh, for fuckin’, let me think,” he feigns deep thought, sarcasm laden in every gesture, every word that he speaks. “Oh yeah, Red Ice. Am I right?” 

He still doesn’t let Conan speak, and a part of him wants to sink into the floor. But Conan’s programming doesn’t let that dread show, save for a twitch in his brow, a slight downturn of his lips.

“I’m a detective, and I’d be a damn bad one if I didn’t notice the signs, Conan. It’s my _job._ Figured there was a reason why Oliver bolted out of Detroit so fast after the divorce. Found traces of it around the house, shit he forgot to grab in his rush to get out the fuckin’ door,” Gavin jeers. Conan can feel the anger radiating off of his skin—one wrong move, one wrong statement, and the small bit of calm Gavin is holding onto will shatter. Conan knows this, and yet— 

“I apologize, it wasn’t my intent for you to recall something so unpleasant,” Conan reaches into the pocket of his jeans, thumbing the pen he had thought to grab before he came here. The one from when they first met. It brings him little to no comfort. “I just thought…”

“Thought what?!” 

“That you would want to know what became of someone whom you once valued so highly.” 

“Yeah? Well, you were fucking wrong,” Gavin seethes, shouldering past him. “I need a drink.” 

He doesn’t stop Gavin from storming to the refreshment table, to where Tina is still struggling to pour alcohol into two shot glasses. He tears his eyes away as Gavin snatches the bottle directly from Tina’s fingers and brings it to his lips. 

Conan feels more than sees Connor’s sympathetic gaze fixated on him from across the room. He barely registers his feet moving toward him until they’re face to face. 

“I take it you heard that entire exchange,” Conan mutters. 

“Heard what?” Hank inquires from beside Connor. 

“Yes, I did,” Connor ignores his partner’s comment. “Give him some time—” 

They both wince as Tina loudly proclaims ‘shots’ from somewhere nearby. 

“Your buddy Gavin over there’s drinking a whole lot,” Hank points out. “Not that I give a shit about Reed, but.” 

“I am well aware,” Conan says coldly. “I also do not believe you are in any position to criticize the amount of alcohol others intake, based on the current state of your liver.” 

“Damn,” Hank blanches. “Your twin can be a real prick, Connor.” 

“I was built to be intimidating, Lieutenant,” Conan helpfully informs him. 

“Conan and I have quite a lot of differences, Hank,” Connor corrects defensively, and turns to his successor. “Also, I have been getting water to balance out each drink that Hank consumes so that it will not affect him.” 

“A smart approach,” he comments. “Though, I don’t think Gavin would react positively to me trying to do the same.” 

“You’re…probably right,” Connor admits slowly. “I think I may have something that will cheer you up.”

Conan raises a brow just as Hank scoffs something about how _he was fucking upset? How could you even tell?!_

“And what might that be?” 

Connor only smiles, mumbles something into the Lieutenant’s ear. “Follow me.” 

He leads Conan through the living room, and they both wave in response to their colleagues’ friendly hellos. They come to a stop at the back door, and Connor hurriedly ushers them through it, latching it shut behind him. Not two seconds later, Conan feels something wet smear across his knuckles, and he jerks away in shock. 

He adjusts his optical units so that he can see through the dark blanketing the yard, and is greeted by a great monstrosity of a dog. Saint Bernard. Male. 170 pounds and 29 inches tall. He stares up at Conan with big brown eyes, his drooping jaws coated in saliva. He noses at Conan’s hand once again, and he lets it happen, confused. 

“This is Sumo,” Connor says brightly. “I believe he would very much like it if you gave him some attention.” 

He watches, bemused, as Connor squats and drags his fingers through thick fur, scratches directly behind Sumo’s floppy ears. “He likes being pet here quite a lot.” 

“I see,” Conan responds apprehensively. He follows his predecessor’s lead and bends down onto one knee, and slowly brings his palm to the side of a fuzzy neck. He gives an experimental scratch, and Sumo makes a faint ‘boof’ sound. Conan is going to take that as approval. 

He continues to pamper the St. Bernard with all the focus he can muster (which was only 75% at the moment, the other 25% was still set on the Detective inside). Connor coos at the dog with a fond glow in his eyes. Conan finds himself at ease with this furry beast, Sumo heavily leaning into his side and shedding all over him. He can understand why Connor likes these animals so much, despite the copious amounts of drool. 

Sumo eventually bounds off, tail wagging as he lumbers back into the grass, satisfied with the attention he had received. They stay outside for awhile after that, idly conversing until Conan reluctantly decides that they both should return to the festivities. 

He and his predecessor quietly slide through the door, and Conan is surprised to see that all the guests seemed to have amassed into the living room. Their attention is commanded by something in the center of the room, some looking bemused, others flat out disturbed. His audio processors pick up on the sultry Christmas song playing through the speakers, and once his eyes find what everyone is so fixated on, he finds that his fans kick into overdrive against his will, fighting to cool his suddenly burning biocomponents. He lets out a deep breath through his nose, and forces himself to observe.

* * *

Gavin is so, _so_ fucking drunk. The room lurches dangerously around him as he swallows another mouthful of alcohol, relishing in the burn it leaves behind as it scorches down his throat. Tina is giggling maniacally as she shoves another shot into his hand, and he gulps that one down numbly, too. Who can blame him, after that? 

He doesn’t even know why he decided to come to this shitty party. Well, actually, he does. He just would prefer not to admit that he’s stupid attracted to a machine, pieces of plastic melded together into a perfect being that Gavin could never hope to be worthy of. Conan is all big, well sculpted muscle and piercing blue eyes, fucking flawless in all the ways Gavin or any other human can’t be. 

He’s a good detective, practically forced himself to be, sick of constantly living in the shadow of his sibling. Always put on the goddamn back burner. It’s something he prefers not to dwell on, something he doesn’t let himself think about. He poured everything he has into his work, ruined whatever friendships he could have had because of it, ruined his own marriage all those years ago. Old wounds that still burn when ripped back to the surface. 

He’s a good detective, but not a good person. 

Fowler forces him to partner up with this android, this machine—this naive _thing_ who’s hardly even lived. Gavin lets himself get attached, lets his hate start to falter, enough to let Conan into his home, enough for Gavin to start thinking of him as a person. And for what? So that Gavin can feel some kind of fucked up form of self validation? So that Gavin can shove Conan away whenever the android shows that he cares? He got himself into this mess, and hell, he needed an escape. 

So yeah, he’s fucking drunk, shoot him.

The next thing he knew Tina was dragging him out into the middle of the living room, and he’s laughing, he’s _smiling._ It feels good. So when she turns on some dumb Christmas song and beckons for him to join her in a duet, it’s all too easy to say yes. He doesn’t think about the potential embarrassment of doing this in front of all of his coworkers, not now. 

Tina mouths the words at him, swings her hips sensuously while making ‘come hither’ motions with one finger. She trips over her feet as she tries to step backward, and Gavin’s laughing so hard he has tears in his eyes. He stumbles forward, pulls Tina to him, wiggles his hips a little as he sings along. He swings them around just as Tina playfully runs her hand down his chest, all for show. 

It’s then that he catches those eyes in the back of the living room. Piercing. Blue. Painfully unimpressed. He wonders why, who’s Conan to judge him for having a bit of fun? Fuckin’ android has no idea what fun even is, probably. He snorts, almost falters in his steps. He finds himself drawn back to that gaze again, like a magnetic pull. He sees something flash behind them, glowing for just a split second, then the music that had been playing fizzles out, static eventually forming into the words of another song. 

Tina groans. “Wha’ the fuck happened?” 

“It seemed to have had some sort of glitch, Officer Chen.” Gavin shivers as he hears that deep timbre suddenly speak from beside him. Conan shoots him a knowing look, and Gavin hates that he has nothing to say. 

Gavin notices that the song that Conan had chosen to play has a much slower beat, more melodic, more… romantic. Other couples had already begun swaying against each other, since Gavin and Tina had so gracefully introduced the idea of dancing. He has a feeling he’s going to regret that in the morning. 

He watches as Fowler swings his wife in a smooth arc, a rare, barely noticeable smile pulling at his mouth. Sees Hank as he pulls Connor against him, the two simply rocking back and forth, Connor’s head snuggly pressed to Hank’s shoulder. Not a care in the world. Gavin has to tear his gaze away at the tenderness there. 

He hears Conan make a contemplative noise, and when he looks up he sees his partner staring him down. Eyes lidded. Predatory. 

“Join me?” He says, and holds out a perfectly manicured hand. 

Gavin can only stare. _Why? Why? Why? Why him?_

“What.” Is all he can force out of his throat. 

“Would you like to dance with me?” Conan repeats flatly, brow twitching in confusion. A tick that Gavin hates that he’s started to recognize almost too easily. 

_No,_ he should say. No, he doesn’t want to dance with Conan. _No, absolutely not, nothing good will come of—_

Before Gavin can react through his drunken haze, a firm hand latches onto his arm and practically drags him into the midst of all the bodies. Oh fuck, _fuck fuck fuck._ He can’t think as Conan slides both his hands into his own, can hardly breath as he gently yanks Gavin closer to his body with strength that he refuses to dwell on. 

There is still distance that bridges them apart, but from this close Gavin can feel the android’s warmth, see the faint freckles that speck his cheeks and neck, the dark lashes that frame that cold blue. 

“I would like to apologize,” Conan suddenly declares, eyes fixed somewhere over Gavin’s shoulder. “For bringing up the arrest of Oliver Knowles. My social protocols did not predict that sort of reaction.” 

“Y’know what, fuck it,” Gavin hiccups, attention stubbornly focused on the android’s chin. “I don’t care,” he pauses, heaves out a deep breath. “I’m so drunk, fuck.” 

Conan’s gaze flicks down to him at that, and Gavin feels like a live wire when their eyes meet. He doesn’t miss the worry that flits across his expression in the subtlest of ways. 

“And for future reference,” he jabs his finger into Conan’s chest. “You can’t always rely on that preprogrammed android bullshit in everythin’ you do. You can’t predict the future, ’s a part of being alive.” He regrets the words almost immediately after they leave his mouth. _Alive,_ he had said. 

“I…” he starts, LED whirling yellow. “I will take that into consideration, Gavin,” Conan mutters, doesn’t stop looking down at Gavin as they sway together. The distance that he believed had been between them feels nonexistent now. They’re so close and it would be so, so easy to lean up those last few inches, practically fuckin’ effortless. He doesn’t register how stupid that idea actually is through his alcohol muddled mind, in fact, his drunken brain seems to believe that’s a brilliant thing to do. 

He finds himself pushing onto the balls of his feet, winding his arms up around the android’s neck as much as he is able, feeling the fabric of his sweater beneath his palms, the dim whirring of machinery beneath his skin. He leans closer, closer. Until he can feel the warmth ghosting from Conan’s lips, until he can practically taste it. 

Gavin then realizes that Conan isn’t going to move, he’s going to _let this happen._ And that’s when reality comes crashing back down into Gavin’s bones, slamming into him like ten ton bricks. He jerks away, shoves his face into Conan’s collarbone, the android’s neck pressed against the side of his head. He feels that familiar heat flare into his cheeks, and he subconsciously curls his fingers into Conan’s sweater. 

“Detective Reed?” 

“I”m hot,” Gavin blurts, muffled by Conan’s shoulder. “It’s goddamn hot in here.” 

“Would you like to go to the backyard? It is substantially colder outside.” Conan’s hands had somehow found their way to his hips, the heat of them like brands on his skin. He can’t seem to pinpoint when the _fuck_ that had happened. “There is also a dog.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Gavin rambles, pushes away from Conan, desperate to break free from the contact. 

He sags onto the ground as soon as he feels bitter winter air touch against his skin, using Conan as an anchor as he lowers himself onto the first step of the porch. Gavin’s world still spins as he sits there, but he’s losing that pleasant buzz in his chest, the lightness that comes with alcohol. He fumbles for the pack of crumpled cigarettes in his pocket just as the biggest dog he’s ever seen comes lumbering up to Conan’s side, panting happily. 

“Holy shit,” he scoffs, stuffs the cigarette into his mouth and lights it with clumsy fingers. 

“Sumo belongs to the Lieutenant,” Conan explains, runs his hand through the dog’s fur. “He is very friendly.”

“Not much of a dog person,” he exhales, watches as the smoke is lifted away by the wind. Conan’s attention turns to him, then, that familiar disapproval in his eyes, but he makes no move to rip his cancer stick from him. 

“What?” Gavin coos, cheeks still flushed from the alcohol and the cold. “You’re not even gonna try and take it from me this time?” 

Conan raises a brow, lips barely twitching into what Gavin thinks might be a teasing smile. “Would you like me to?” 

He’s suddenly painfully aware of how close they are, Conan’s knee occasionally bumping against his, a toned arm knocking against his shoulder every so often. He swallows thickly. 

“I might quit for real this time,” Gavin starts, dramatically rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ tired of you staring at me every time I decide to take a smoke.” 

“Except I do not look at you for extended periods only when you’re fulfilling your nicotine addiction,” Conan says immediately. Gavin feels his heart slam up into his throat. “I’ve found that I quite enjoy, as you put it, staring at you in general.” 

“If that’s your fuckin’ attempt at flirting,” Gavin snorts out a laugh, speaks shakily. “That’s pretty pathetic.” He shivers, rubs his palms together to stave off the frigid air pricking at his skin. 

“You’re cold,” Conan observes thoughtfully, and Gavin nearly has a panic attack as he sees the android confidently reach for his hands. 

“Whoa, whoa, the fuck’er you doing?” Gavin stammers, yanks them away, stomach twisting into knots. 

“I can help,” he says patiently. “I am equipped with temperature regulators in my hands, so I’m able to drastically increase or decrease the warmth in them.” 

Gavin stares at him incredulously. Conan seems to understand his unspoken question.

There are a few seconds of silence before Conan answers. “For…interrogation purposes.” 

He doesn’t want to think of the implications of that statement. “That’s pretty fucked up.” 

“I suppose,” Conan replies. “However, I do believe that it would also make for a formidable hand warmer.” 

“I—uh,” Gavin gnaws at his bottom lip, stubbornly turns away. “Fuck, okay.” He gulps down the butterflies that worm through his guts, and shoves his hand against Conan’s. He’s going to regret this entire night so, so hard tomorrow. 

He feels the slide of Conan’s palm drifting over his knuckles, and the other coming to rest beneath his curled fingers. He cups Gavin’s hand in both of his own, and he subconsciously notes how stupid fucking _big_ they are. Conan’s hands radiate near immediate warmth onto his chilled skin, and he almost can’t stand how comforting the heat actually is. 

“Can’t believe your hands are goddamn space heaters.” 

He hears the deep rumble of Conan’s laughter in his chest, a quick sound trapped behind his lips that’s still capable of making Gavin’s insides flutter. 

“I think I should mention that, since it’s customary to get presents for others near or on Christmas,” he pauses, and Gavin whips his head back toward him and watches as he plucks a box from his side. There’s no fucking way. “I decided to get you something.” He holds the box out toward him, covered in perfectly wrapped festive paper. 

“Why?” He breathes, and hesitantly reaches out to touch it. 

“Because that is something that one does for those they care for, is it not?” 

_Those they care for._ The words echo through his mind, bounce off the walls of his brain. 

“Y-yeah, yeah,” Gavin gingerly sets the gift in his lap and ogles at it dumbly. “It is.” 

“Open it,” Conan urges. “Or are your hands too cold to do so?” 

Gavin shakes his head, doesn’t notice the smile that dances across his lips. Tin can’s apparently full of jokes tonight. 

“I got it, asshole,” he snuffs his cigarette out, tears the wrapping paper, tentative. Once he has the thing open, he almost wants to chuck it across the yard in disbelief. 

“You,” Gavin snickers, drags a hand through his hair. “You, stone cold asshole of a fuckin’ android,” he lifts the cover off the shoe box, and shakes what’s inside at Conan in bewilderment. “Decided to get me _shark slippers.”_

“Yes, I did,” something dangerously concerned flickers through Conan’s eyes. “Is there a problem? I was under the impression you were quite fond of them.” 

“You see me in my stupid shark pajamas one damn time,” he heaves out a laugh. “And this is what happens.” 

Conan tilts his head pensively, but makes no move to speak. 

“Okay, yes, asshole,” Gavin admits quickly. “These are pretty awesome. I uh— didn’t get you anything.” 

Conan only watches him, and Gavin doesn’t notice how hard he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt. 

“No,” the android says lowly, and the look on his face is impossibly fond. “This is enough.” 

They only get a few more moments of peace, staring up at the stars, foggy and faint from the surrounding light pollution. A small dusting of snow had begun to fall, and Gavin tries and fails not to notice the flakes clinging to Conan’s hair and his impossibly long lashes. He also tries and fails at hiding the pink that flushes his cheeks as Conan’s fingers unabashedly wrap around his hands again, warming them. 

Tina suddenly decides to bust through the back door, completely shattering their brief moment of contentment. She gasps dramatically, drunkenly yells at them to ‘put their dicks away’. She announces that they’re starting to open presents inside, and insists that they both keep her company. Gavin agrees easily, and absolutely doesn’t linger on how Conan keeps an arm around his waist to steady him as they follow behind Tina, how he doesn't move even after they’re settled among their coworkers. 

And you better fuckin’ believe that Gavin wears those shark slippers for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE GUYS! (barely) University has been sooo rough on me this semester, so a big shoutout to those of you who have stuck with me and those of you who leave kudos and such sweet comments! I truly do appreciate each and every single one of you. <3 Hopefully the length makes up for the wait. This was some (very super hard to write, for some reason?) fluff before we get back to our regularly scheduled program. B) 
> 
> The song I imagined Gavin and Tina dancing to was Santa Baby by Kylie Minogue, just in case you all wanted to visualize that hot mess more lol.


End file.
